There once was a woman who lived in a zoo;
She had so many tasks, she didn’t know what to do;
She gave them each time without any dread;
Then paused them all feebly and fell into bed.
I can’t say I identify with an old woman living in a shoe. (I mean…what?)
But, oh how I’ve become a middle-aged woman with a zoo-paced life.
While not perfect, I try to say yes where I’m called and no where I’m not.
So—why do I feel less like Mrs. Proverbs 31, and more like Raggedy-Brenda?
Am I just too weak, Lord?
My spirit cries prayer upon prayer, till I hush long enough to listen—and in the refrain, a Whisper :
“Rest, child. Just rest.”
And also, how?
I feel you calling me into a summer of quiet, but God—here’s the thing—it seems I’ve forgotten how to be still.
Yet my antsy soul can’t remember how to sing slow’s song. When did the melody change? And how did I miss it?
A rushed energy pulses in my flesh, clanging against my spirit, begging its way out.
My mind, a tangled ball of thoughts and feelings, words and ideas, duties and fatigue. Pulling one strand only makes the others tighter.
Peace. Peace I crave.
How do I surrender to the quiet, Lord? The whirling throb within wrestles against the shy cadence of calm.
I’ve spent so long giving credence to the rushed, I’ve forgotten how to trust the hushed.
Oh God, the flicker of your whisper is greater than the flame of my hustle.
I want Your pace, Your plans, Your path, Your peace.
In the midst of the blur, I search for you—and always you’re found by my ambling spirit.
Oh Father, teach me anew how to sit small in your presence.
How to submit to the quiet.
How to linger in grace.
Refresh, renew, redeem, remake. All of me.
As the porch lights linger and the fireflies dance.
Perhaps, like me, you’re chasing life so hard, you hadn’t noticed it’s now chasing you.
David writes in Psalm 39:6, “We are merely moving shadows, and all our busy rushing ends in nothing.” (nlt)
And also, no thank you!
Oh Father, we want to be more than shadows dancing in busy emptiness. We long for a life measured in the things of eternity.
As David testified umpteen-thousand years earlier, “busy rushing” doesn’t satisfy eternal influence.
“Rest. Just Rest.” His words, like candied grace, flood my weary being with gratitude.
All the things He’s called us to? They’re not going anywhere. Not without Him. And all the things He hasn’t? We don’t want them anyway. Amen?
Friend, have you noticed there’s more faith in the letting go than there is in the hanging on?
It’s scary loosening the chains of busyness. Will others understand? Will we lose momentum? Will we still be able to make a difference?
But, here’s the thing I’m learning—as scary as all that is, His faithfulness is greater still.
Whether for a day, a week, a month, or a summer, we can trust the Creator of rest to sift time rightly, restoring a melody of calm to our days.
We need only but to abide.
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