Living From Rest

I love what I do.

I get to sit with people God cherishes and help them rediscover how deeply loved they

are. I cannot imagine doing anything else. But calling and passion do not protect us from sorrow.

In less than a year, our family has walked through death, dementia, serious illness, and the slow goodbye of someone we love. The kind of year that leaves you standing in the kitchen wondering how the ground beneath your feet shifted so suddenly.

Maybe you know that feeling, too.

Grief has a way of stacking itself—loss on top of loss—until the weight becomes unbearable. Some of us go quiet. Some of us power through. Some of us insist we’re fine while quietly unraveling.

Eventually something gives. And when it does, we realize how tired we really are.

We talk a lot about balance and boundaries, but what we often need is something far simpler:

Rest. Not distraction. Not numbing.

Not scrolling or zoning out.

Sacred rest.

The kind that lets God touch us in places where we have been merely surviving, places that He wants to heal.

Scripture tells us that God commanded rest long before modern burnout studies ever existed. Sabbath was not restriction—it was protection. A Father caring for fragile nervous systems and weary bodies long before we knew what to call them.

How we rest (or don’t rest) reveals what we believe about God.

Do we resist rest? Do we get antsy? Irritable? Do we list all the reasons why we must do this or that? Are we always filling our minds with some sort of distraction?

What are we afraid of? Silence? Our own thoughts? That if we slow down to hear God’s voice, we won’t like what He has to say?

Or does a part of us believe that God is driving us on? That He demands we DO more?

When we believe that, even the Sabbath, even ‘rest’, can become just another task we have to perform.

What if God’s rest isn’t so much a command as an invitation to curl up in the shelter of His presence?

The past month taught me just how much grief I had been carrying without noticing. A friend gently asked whether I was running from something I had never named.

She was right.

When I slowed down long enough to listen, memories surfaced—old losses, childhood pain, seasons I had endured rather than processed. I reached out to people I trust and let them pray with me as I finally gave voice to what I had buried.

I forgave.

I wept.

I released.

I pictured Jesus sitting beside every younger version of me, steady and kind, lifting the weight piece by piece.

It was not dramatic. It was holy.

By the end, my body felt lighter. My mind was still. I slept like someone who had finally come home. That is what rest does. It restores us from the inside out.

I still have rhythms to reshape and habits to surrender, but I am learning something new: God is not waiting for me at the finish line. He is teaching me how to walk without running.

If you are tired—bone tired, soul tired—I want you to hear this:

You are not failing.

You are human.

And you are loved.

Maybe today you pause long enough to name two things stealing your peace. Maybe you bring them honestly to God instead of pushing through again. He already knows. And He is kinder than you think.

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I created a Morning and Evening Prayer that you can download (below) and pray each day. Jimmy and I read it together when we can, and I’ve framed it by the coffee pot for busy mornings. I hope it helps shift your heart towards rest and presence.



We love you. And thank you to everyone who has been praying for us - you carry us more than you know.

Renee

Morning & Evening Prayers