The Journal of David Harper

September 3rd, 2031, Whispers of Peace

I barely slept last night. Every creak in the house sent my heart racing, every gust of wind felt like a warning—a sign that something, or someone, was coming. I know we've sealed the doors, barricaded the windows, and prayed for protection, but still, the unease sits in my chest like a weight I can't shake.

Martha didn't sleep much either. I could hear her tossing and turning beside me, whispering prayers under her breath. I wish I had more answers for her, for both of us, but all I can do is cling to the promise that Jesus is watching over us. He won't leave us to face this nightmare alone.

This morning, we heard gunshots—not nearby, but close enough to make us worry. It's hard to say what's worse—the Zeeks or the other survivors. Desperation makes people do terrible things. I've seen it before, during my time in the service, stationed in some dangerous hotspots. But never like this. Never in our own backyard. I can only pray that Martha and I can stay hidden, so we don't have to fight another one of our fellow citizens, who's just trying to survive.

The power's still out, and the house feels colder without it. We used to take those little things for granted, didn't we? A warm home, a hot meal. Now, even the simplest comforts feel like luxuries. We've been careful with how much we eat, knowing it won't last forever. I'll need to venture out soon—maybe to the Johnsons' place. They went on vacation right before everything went bad. I keep telling myself it's not stealing if they're not coming back.

Martha's worried about the medicine. She keeps asking about my heart meds, and I keep telling her I'll be fine. But the truth is, I don't know how much longer I have before I'll need to find more. Skipping doses doesn't feel like an option, but what choice do I have? If I go out looking for a pharmacy, I'm taking a risk I'm not sure I'm ready for.

We gathered in the living room to pray this morning, like we always do. I held Martha's hand, and we bowed our heads together, asking God for strength, for wisdom. I could feel her trembling. I felt it too. This world is so far from the one we knew, and it's easy to forget the good in all the darkness. But Jesus never promised an easy road—He promised He'd walk it with us, even when the shadows seem too thick.

After we prayed, He appeared again, standing by the fireplace, kindness in His eyes, watching, understanding. He didn't speak at first, just looked at me with that deep kindness He always has. It's a look that reminds me He understands—He sees my fear, my doubt, and loves me anyway.

I asked Him, "How do we keep going, Lord? How do we keep hope when everything around us is falling apart?"

His answer was simple. "One step at a time, John. I am with you, always."

I wanted more. A solution. A miracle to make all this end. But that's not how He works, is it? It's faith in the small things, in the quiet moments, that keeps us going.

Before He left, He nodded toward the Bible on the coffee table. "Read it, John," He said. "Find your strength in My words."

I haven't told Martha about seeing Him. Not yet. Maybe I will tomorrow. But for now, I'll hold on to that moment—the peace it gave me.

Sitting in the stillness afterward, I could hear His words echo in my heart. "Be still and know that I am God." Those words felt like the morning dew, quietly refreshing my spirit, reminding me that even in this world of chaos, I can find peace in His presence. It's hard to stay calm when everything is so loud—gunshots, fear, even our own frantic thoughts. But I'm learning that the only way to navigate this is to be still with Him, to let Him refresh me as the night dew refreshes the grass.

I thought of Martha again, how she had been so upset this morning, worried about the medicine and everything that had to be done. It reminded me of the story of Mary and Martha—how Martha was distracted by all the preparations, but Mary chose the better part, sitting at the Lord's feet. I can't help but see a bit of that in us. Martha is trying to take care of us, but in her worry, she's missing out on the peace Jesus offers. I'll have to remind her, gently, that sometimes, the best thing we can do is sit quietly with Him.

For now, I'll hold on to this peace, this moment of stillness in a world that seems determined to tear itself apart. God is not the author of confusion, but of peace. I'm going to try to remember that, even when everything around us is falling apart. Peace is what we need now—His peace, that quiet presence that can calm even the most frantic heart.

Tomorrow, maybe, I'll tell Martha about seeing Him. But for now, I'll just hold her hand and pray for strength. One step at a time.