When Rest Is Necessary
The admitting nurse came to take my vitals and asked what felt like a thousand jagged questions. I gave answers the best I could through humiliated sobs. I told her what I could: who I was and how I’d gotten there, but I was so shocked and confused. Was this really happening to me? Was I really failing as a wife and mother to my family? As an answer to my pained bewilderment, she said, “I know why you’re here.” I stared and she continued:
“This is your Holy Pause. God is giving you a safe space to rest and receive what you need from Him and from us. You’ve been lighting yourself on fire to keep everyone else warm. You can’t do that and not end up in the hospital. You need to rest and learn how to take care of yourself. You need to breathe.”
Her words blessed and broke me. She was right. I was charred to a crisp from years of heating our home with my very life, but I didn’t know another way. I didn’t know how to care or help my son with autism, nor his scared and hurting siblings. I had never felt more like a failure, never more pathetic or worthless than this very moment. Shouldn’t I know what they all need? Isn’t love enough? The nurse placed a very small, very strong pill in my hand and told me it would give my brain and body rest. The first three days, all I did was weep and sleep. I was catching up on both. By the fourth day, I had finally purged enough tears and slept enough hours that I could hold a conversation. I welcomed the hospital chaplain that afternoon.
“Kate, have you heard of Lectio Divina?””
She explained that it was a divine monastic practice of Scripture reading intended to promote communion with God. She asked if I had a favorite passage. I asked her to choose her favorite for me. She encouraged me to picture myself in the story, to let the Spirit speak to and guide me. I was ready to receive whatever I could from the Lord. She opened her Bible and read:
“Then he got into the boat and his disciples followed him. Suddenly a furious storm came up on the lake, so that the waves swept over the boat. But Jesus was sleeping. The disciples went and woke him, saying, ‘Lord, save us! We’re going to drown!’ He replied, ‘You of little faith, why are you so afraid?’ Then he got up and rebuked the winds and the waves, and it was completely calm. The men were amazed and asked, ‘What kind of man is this? Even the winds and the waves obey him!’”(Matthew 8:23–27, NIV)
Her voice was melodic. The verses were a near lullaby on her lips, and I felt rocked by the words. By the end of the third reading, I was fully curled up with Jesus on the boat. I could nearly smell the salty air and hear the creak of wooden boards moved by turbulent water beneath me. I was able to feel myself in the story. I was safe in the arms of Almighty Jesus, and His peace enveloped me. It was the first time I’d felt peace in months. I began to cry because this beautiful encounter wasn’t the reality of my life experience, and I didn’t know how not to be afraid within my unrelenting, raging reality. Don’t you care that we are going to drown? Wake up, Jesus! Do something, please? I was frantically trying to scoop water out of the boat to keep from drowning when what I really needed to do was curl up with the only One who could save me. This is what made my tears fall repeatedly as I rested in that hospital bed for several more days. I wasn’t safe because of the absence of the storm, I was safe because of the gentle and great God who was present in it.
After seven days of holy pausing, I was discharged from the hospital. I reentered my life with no answers as to how to rescue our children, but I held a permanent invitation to rest with the One who could. The most essential thing I could do for our children was to model desperation and dependence. They had to see and believe that Mama trusted in almighty Jesus, even as our boat was tossed to and fro. This wasn’t (and isn’t) easy. It wasn’t instinctual. This was faith and the hardest trust I’d ever fought for. I would have to learn to recline with Jesus and fight against my human urge to figure it all out, fix things, and be our family savior. I would have to repeatedly pull back the blankets and climb into His invitation to come and rest.
It’s been several years since my Holy Pause and I can still attest to the same simple practices of self-care and faith. I still feel drawn to over-function for a love I already have. But as I curl up on the boat with Jesus and imagine myself resting as waves fall, I know I am safe and provided for in a way that hurry and panic cannot provide. Are you exhausted my friend? Are the high winds and waves throwing you from side to side? There’s a spot on the floor of the boat for you. It’s right next to the gentle God who knows what you need. Come unto Him and rest.
