Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe, for evening. Trees slip into black pajamas as color drains from the sky, pooling at the edges, vivid feather boas draping the sun.
Blessed are You for slowness of twilight, a dissolving that escapes notice until I get distracted, and looking back to the sky, find it changed.
Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe, for those things that spark alive even as I dim. Owls and mice open their eyes, stars twinkle, dew forms, and streams gurgle night music. My ears attune as my eyes rest, kissed to sleep by the softness of twilight.
Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe, for darkness— daily invitation to rest— to be quiet in ink-dark night or a night moonlit and star-twinkled.
Blessed are You for spirit rest, my insides sitting down, breathing deep, inhaling Life.
Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe, for the authority of rest to dethrone “right” and “wrong,” straining and struggling, worth by performance, and value by others’ opinions of me.
Blessed are You for this sacred act of resistance, this radical move to stop moving, this subversive whisper suggesting that rest is a nap— but also more— a knowing that what is most important is already done. “It is finished.”
“Rest first.” This is God’s favorite thing to say to me. It’s incredibly irritating. I am terrible at resting, compelled to be a productive and functional human being. But God is provokingly persistent.
“Rest first.”
But I’m too messy to rest.
“Rest first.”
But there’s work to be done.
“Rest first.”
But people need me.
“Rest first.”
But I don’t deserve to rest.
“Rest first.”
But rest makes me feel restless.
“Rest first.”
But what if I get tired and sleep too long?
“Rest first.”
But what if I’m missing something? What if right now is the moment I need to grab what You have for me and hold on tight?
“Rest first.”
At this point I’m out of excuses, so I sit slumped down with arms crossed, pouting.
I have fought God tooth and nail on His invitation to rest first, and His corresponding refusal to “fix” me before I can rest.
In my defense, it’s impossible to rest when I don’t feel safe in my own skin. My journal bears witness to this ongoing struggle.
August 1 - What am I afraid of? Myself. And I think I’m afraid of admitting I’m afraid of myself, because it took me a long time to write that down, and I’m feeling really vulnerable.
September 22 - I wanted to be alone today, but it occurs to me that perhaps I wanted to get away even from myself, and this is hard (read “impossible”) to do. If I’m scared of me, anxiety is inescapable. Even if I get away from people and distract myself with busyness, in the end I’m still with myself.
I have been plagued with fear that I am a liability in life. Every time I fail, or don’t show up how I want to, it seems my fear is confirmed, and I am, in fact, a liability. Fighting this battle, against what I perceive as my own nature, sucks away time and energy like a board meeting. I struggle against my own self, day in and day out. I am a liability. I must protect myself and the people around me from this truth by performing well. Every. Single. Time.
But fighting and performing inevitably fails. I suppose the redeeming feature of failure is that eventually I become willing to consider what God is saying; consider thinking differently; consider rest.
I am allowed to be a mess.
I am allowed to skip out on some work.
I am allowed to take a break from meeting people’s needs.
I am allowed to rest.
I am worthy of rest.
I am not going to miss out on anything.
In her book Braving the Wilderness, Brené Brown uses the phrase, “Strong back. Soft front.” For me, this is a depiction of what it means to have an identity in Christ. I was created by God; I am inhabited by God; I am destined for perfect union with God. This is my strong back. I am not waiting to find out who I am today—to define myself by success or failure. I know who I am.
And today my soft front is three things: 1) love for people—especially my family, 2) grace for myself, and 3) holding things loosely—especially tiredness, fear, sadness, confusion, and loneliness in my marriage. These things are transient, but God and love and grace aren’t going anywhere.
I am able to have a soft front only when I have a strong back. If I have no back, I rely on an exoskeleton of performance to hold me together. But when I have a backbone of awareness that I am loved and righteous, I become soft and able to rest; and after rest, to embrace the person in front of me.
This freedom pokes its way into my consciousness through friendship, quiet time, reading. I write down moments of grace-full thinking and return to them:
“I am beautiful without adding or taking away anything, just like the lilies of the field. I am clothed by God, and my clothing is not distinguishable from me, just like a violet. I am clothed in dignity.”
“I am not a liability.”
“I am learning how to hold myself, receive comfort from God, and receive comfort from people. This is a valuable skill. I have survived without it, but I will thrive with it.”
“I have permission to enjoy my own company. I get to decide how I treat myself.”
Some time ago I wrote reminders to myself on a notecard, including: “I believe God is trustworthy,” and “I believe my husband is trustworthy.” With some trepidation I recently added, “I believe I am trustworthy.” After a lifetime of being told that sinful humans can’t be trusted, believing I am trustworthy may be what returns me to myself. I can be trusted to make decisions, manage my emotions, spend my time. In other words, I can be trusted to be in charge of myself. I am not on trial with God or anyone else, so all of these decisions are simply opportunities to learn. I can be curious about myself—about life—and I can be compassionate with myself.
Earlier this year I really got my panties in a wad, worrying that I wasn’t receiving what God had for me. After months of struggling I admitted things weren’t looking too good and set up an appointment with my counselor, Beth. When I told her I was worried and distracted by wanting God to fix me, and fearful I wasn’t letting Him do what He wanted to do, Beth said, “But you do know how to listen to the Holy Spirit and trust Him.”
After my long struggle I felt it would be necessary to claw my way back to peace and trust. But Beth said it’s just a tweak, a chiropractic adjustment, and I am back in trust with God. And so I journal again, choosing to trust God, and in so doing, to trust myself.
“God with the Welcoming Lap, I leave behind my perfectionist, outcomes-based thinking, and I return to trust. I am fully capable of responding to Your Spirit.”
In Zach Williams’ song, “Fear Is a Liar,” this line arrests me: “…you could be the one that grace could never change.” Despite (or maybe because of) being a lifelong Bible-believing Christian, I fear I could be the one who can get it wrong, miss out, not respond how or when I’m supposed to. This lie has felt so close to truth.
There’s a whole conversation about whether it’s hard to be “saved” or hard to be “lost,” which I’m not going to get into. I will say that believing it’s hard to be saved is a death sentence for a perfectionist. What helps me unclench is knowing “It is finished.” God already did the thing that rescued me. I can go with what He did, instead of what I’m doing. I can agree with Him, instead of my wretched feelings. He says I am righteous. Full stop.
And so I pray: “I leave behind my stubborn fear that I am the one grace could never change. I am capable of trusting You. I am not a helpless victim. I am able to hear You, trust You, and choose You. I am not in need of the right formula, or the right circumstances, or the future version of me that is better than this one. You created me with the ability to choose and to trust. ‘Being good’ was completed by Jesus, and there is nothing left for me to perform.”
Oh, sweet rest, how I longed to fall into your soft pillows, pull up a thick blanket, and be still. And here I am finally, with both feet tucked in, glasses off, curled up around my pillow, almost laughing with joy before I sink into peaceful stillness. Rest.
When I come to Jesus trying to fix things and in despair over my humanity, His response is usually the same: He invites me to rest. Always I want to do more, and always He invites me to do less. This has been a consistent pattern for years. It is hard for me to be still and know that He is God (Psalm 46:10). It is hard for me to be still and allow myself to be human.
Growing up in the faith tradition called Seventh-Day Adventism, a 24-hour seventh-day Sabbath is a central component of my faith story. This has its pros and cons. As a performance oriented person who has trouble sitting down and who feels uncomfortable when I’m “relaxing”, growing up with 24 hours of down-time built into my week was an incredible gift. With no effort on my part, I developed a habit that would have felt like sheer torture had I tried to develop it later in life. One of the cons of growing up in a religion centered around Sabbath is that resting on the seventh day can start to work its way up to the level of importance of Jesus’ death and resurrection. There was an unspoken idea (well, occasionally it was blurted right out) that I better not work on the Sabbath if I wanted to be saved. But while avoiding work on the Sabbath was a priority, no one actually talked about what rest looks like (or I wasn’t listening). So here I find myself, keeping a faith tradition of Sabbath that may be as old as time, but I can’t tell you what it means to rest in a Biblical sense. And yet… I am catching glimpses.
October – While reading a novel, I am surprised when tears spring to my eyes at the words of Ellie Whitcomb: “Today’s news is always tomorrow’s liner for the canary cage” (from the novella Engaging Father Christmas by Robin Jones Gunn). This soul-tiredness, this sense of deep responsibility, this desire to get life right – it weighs heavy on me. Knowing that today’s news is no longer news tomorrow is comforting. I take a deep breath. I learn that taking today less seriously might be the oxygen of rest.
October 17 – Lord, will You give me courage to feel sadness, and is it too much to ask to not get lost in it? “Take a deep soul breath,” You say, “You are seen and loved.” Maybe now is not the time to ask You to show me my sin as I was planning to do. Or perhaps this is my sin: trying hard instead of resting in You, and then disconnecting from everyone because trying so hard takes all my energy. I don’t know. I can see You with me all along – waking me up at the exact right moment, giving me the idea of supper by the fire when I was too tired to cook for Friday supper – and Michael suggesting a smoothie and making ramen noodles. You’ve been there in music and stillness and walking me through a lot of days without worrying about my to-do list. I just hate it when I feel like a liability instead of an asset. I want to be strong and good and positive and energetic all the time. I don’t like tired and sad and lonely. But as I sit here I am confident of Your presence in spite of my confusion. And I know You are teaching me that You are in the mess. Perhaps as You embrace me in my messiness I can learn to rest even in the mess. My heart doesn’t have to be vacuumed and dusted for You to be comfortable there. In a way You bring Your own cleanliness with You. And that’s a relief, because if You were waiting on me You’d never be able to move in. Thank You for quieting me with Your love. Sometimes rest comes in getting more comfortable with brokenness. It’s ok to not be ok. This too shall pass. I am called to a life of resting in God’s faithfulness, not a life of trying to be good (or energetic).
October 29 – I feel lost. Am I supposed to have a sense of purpose? What ties together parenting and wifeing and cleaning and texting friends and taking meals to people and being a church? My life feels so scattered. I feel scattered. I have a feeling that the purpose that ties all together is love… but that feels so ethereal, so not me. I’m still selfish and controlling and think the world revolves around me. What does it look like to claim my identity in Christ? He lived and died to accomplish something, right? Why do I still feel like I’m not getting it? God, what are you doing? Where are You at work and how do I join You? …You say I’m already joining You in Your work. You say my messiness is a distraction. And I say, How could it not be? It’s like someone screaming in my face while I’m trying to meditate. I know Your first goal is not to fix me… what do You want? I’ve got nothing, Lord. So whatever is my part better be easy or be something I’m doing already. “Rest,” You say. “Let your full weight down on Jesus. Breathe in His love. Let Him figure everything out. Release Every Single Thing to Jesus: R.E.S.T. in Jesus.” Release writing and reading, pictures and parenting, scheduling and holiday preparations, yard work and cooking, wifeing and friending, praying and sleeping, cleaning and to-do lists, caring for others and inviting them to Your kingdom, crocheting and quilting, applesauce and sweet relish, my emotions and my thoughts, my purpose and my heart, getting up in the morning. Sometimes rest comes in trust. I can take a deep breath and let God be perfect and faithful, not me. I can let go my strangle hold on all the things.
November 1 – When I read the Bible I learn that rest is not a state of mind I could somehow put myself in. It is a gift. “Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest,” Jesus said (Matthew 11:28). Maybe my next move toward Jesus is about doing less, not more. Come to think of it, hasn’t He been telling me that for a year? No, I think longer. I remember declining to help with Vacation Bible School as a turning point, summer of 2016; and the year of therapy in 2017. I don’t think it will ever stop, this untangling from lies. Rest comes in letting God be the “untangler” and letting myself be the “rester.”
December 4 – God has whispered stillness to me in this chorus (sung to the tune of Jesus Is The Answer): “Tobi’s not the answer for the world today. Above her there is Jesus, Jesus is the way.” It is humbling to realize how often and how deeply I want to be the answer. Not only do I want to live my perfect life, I want to help everyone around me live theirs. If they need money, I want to give it to them. If they need marital advice, I secretly hope God will give me perfect words to counsel them. If they need emotional support, I want them to join my small group. In my own life there is a continuous supply of situations that need to be fixed: the dirty house, the kids’ attitudes, the broken toys, the snafu with extended family… But when I remember Jesus is above me, I can take a deep breath. I learn that letting Someone else be in charge can be freeing.
January 7 – I soak in these words from Michael Card: “Trusting Him is no more than the simple awareness that He is holding you.” I learn that rest comes in trusting that I am held.
February – I am afraid of not being in control. Somewhere in the underpinnings of my psyche I believe that if I’m not in control of myself and the people around me, all is lost. There is a sense of catastrophe that squeezes at my chest in the everyday moments that are out of my control – schedules changing, kids in a yelling match, spilled paint and spilled milk, watching my husband react to the kids in a way I don’t think is helpful. I feel an awful mix of being overwhelmed and helpless. I fight by taking control, or flee by going deadpan. I’m afraid to engage, to show up. Parenting has a way of throwing this fear of losing control up in my face over, and over, and over again. These are the moments when it is hardest to take the deep breath God is offering. The Holy Spirit within reminds me: It’s ok when other people don’t do what I want. I don’t have to control. God is my provider and His resources never run out.
February 8 – At bedtime I realize I cannot possibly sleep in the state I’m in. I am anxious. My heart is heavy and it tells my body to hold on tight – to what, I’m not sure. I fetch my phone and begin listening to music, letting the tears flow. In music I find hope, I find permission to be broken. I meet the Spirit of God, holding me yet again. I begin to breathe. I listen to a song my sister shared with me over a cup of shared brokenness: You Can Do This Hard Thing, by Carrie Newcomer. The words give me permission to be sad, and in the sadness I find courage: “You can do this hard thing. You can do this hard thing. Its not easy I know, but I believe that it’s so. You can do this hard thing.”
So rest comes: in music, trust, better knowing who God is, loosening my grip, getting comfortable with brokenness, receiving the Gift, letting God be the One in control. Sometimes rest in body and spirit happen simultaneously, but often it is one without the other. I think God wants all of us to experience both – to enjoy quietness of mind and body; to enjoy both inner peace and physical stillness. I have never been good at either. But God is persistent – almost pesky – with His offering of rest. Thank you Father/Jesus/Spirit.
Do you sometimes – or always – think God wants you to suffer? I do. It’s an odd mix of the “no pain, no gain” mentality, Biblical calls to perfection (anyone who looks at the mess I am and demands perfection must be in favor of suffering), and the growing realization that I experience life as suffering whether anything painful is happening to me or not.
There is much that could be said about pain and suffering, but today I would simply like to share a few moments in which God challenged my idea that He wants me to suffer. As I sat in morning quiet, these words came to mind, as if from God: “I want you to feel safe; be content; have everything you need. I will always be with you when things are hard and wrong, but that is not my desire for you.” As I pondered this, I thought about the way God shows Himself in the 23rd Psalm:
He lets me rest (or as the NKJV says, “He makes me to lie down” – this wording is a lot more accurate for me: Mrs. I-Must-Be-Productive)
He leads.
He restores.
He is with me when death or enemies threaten.
He comforts.
He honors.
He – living in me – leaves a wake of goodness and mercy behind me as I go through life.
He invites me to live in His home when I can live on this earth no longer.
If I think about suffering from a parenting perspective, I understand that watching with a heart of love while a child suffers is always painful. It may be that God “allows” suffering, or even “causes” suffering, but could it be that suffering is not His desire for me?
I like this perspective from my favorite parenting book: “…we administer consequences not with the belief that enough pain will lead to change, but knowing that learning the Father’s way can sometimes be painful.” (Discipline That Connects With Your Child’s Heart, pg. 36)
I believe God suffers for me and with me – never as One looking on, but always as One being broken alongside me. Could it be that as this togetherness sinks in I might experience life more like being led, restored, comforted, and honored, and less like suffering?
God says, “Let me be your provider. ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my strength is made perfect in weakness’ (2 Cor. 12:9). You don’t need your kids and husband and other people around you to keep you happy, or your performance to be your reward. Bring everything to me. Let me be your provider. Be still. Wait on me. Give thanks. Hold fast. Find contentment in watching me provide.”
November 12, 2019
This morning I am feeling my brokenness in parenting. The sorrow of all the moments of connection lost to worry and fear. I asked God what to do and He sent me a bird. A tiny bird to flit about in the leafless tree outside my window. And He reminded me not to worry because He cares for the sparrows and He cares for me. I am not able to parent my children the way He would have me parent them. I am not even to try. I may trust His provision. I may find contentment in watching Him provide.
“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes?Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?” (Matthew 6:25,26 NIV)
November 13, 2019
“I have resurrection power, living on the the inside Jesus, You have given us freedom” (Chris Tomlin, “Resurrection Power”). This morning I write these words with a sense of belonging rather than a sense of longing. Yesterday I spent the afternoon having fun with my daughters. And I actually had fun. And I didn’t even think of my to-do list. That is resurrection power.
November 25, 2019
When I woke up this morning I realized I’m not miserable any more. I was thinking about yesterday and today – my husband being sick, my e-book with an hour left before it expires and no time to listen, the kids being on school vacation, not knowing how best to spend my time, Christmas crochet projects not getting done, grocery shopping, meal preparations, a messy house, parenting my girls today – and none of it felt like a burden.
It has been about four years since I realized I was miserable. Since I got honest about the reality that I had a perfect life and I hated it. I just wanted to escape. Was part of this seasonal? Probably. I had a one year old and a three year old at that time. But the greater part of this change is the holy and beautiful, precious and long desired, oh-so-beautiful and tasty, fruit of seeking God. Or responding to Him seeking me. To be honest, it’s still somewhat of a mystery. But this morning I cry tears of happiness and contentment and relief at the realization I am not miserable. In some sense I am surprised. In the deepest sense I am loved, and I have finally begun to let it soak in.
“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” (Matthew 11:28-30 NIV)
My Favorite Subject 