The guy who gave the sermon a couple weeks ago, the guy in the collar, that guy, preached on rest.
He said, “Stopping is not the same as stillness. Isolation is not the same as solitude. Distracting ourselves is not the same thing as letting go. Rest is not coping. Rest is not ignoring. Rest is not numbing out. The answer to exhaustion is not physical rest, but wholeheartedness. God set his work down in satisfaction, in celebration.”
Since then I’ve been using these words and trying to displace old definitions. Of course (epiphany moment!), all this explains why looking at Facebook in a locked bathroom isn’t leaving me refreshed.
So, it wasn’t far from my mind as we took the twenty-minute bus ride across town on Wednesday. My baby boy loves the freedom of the bus. He was dancing in my lap, throwing himself against the window, yelling at the passersby, and waving goodbye to everyone disembarking.
And then he would stop all of a sudden and be absolutely still. He’d curl into me and tuck his head into the perfect mold of my neck. And for a long moment he would rest.
And then he would pop up again, smiling his wrinkly-nose smile at the man sitting across from us, making spin the wheels of the collapsible stroller, and squealing, no, shrieking, at the parked cars as we passed.
And then he would stop again and be still, letting his whole weight lay heavy across my chest, satisfied.
Life certainly could be the 1-line in this scenario. It goes questionable places, some of the dirtiest parts of town, and some of the most beautiful. Not to mention that it carries quite a few interesting characters.
So, then am I the dancing baby? Do I carry in my bones the knowledge so sure that in moments of stillness I readily lay down my head, without pause, into a familiar crook, letting the weight of my beautiful working life lay heavy across the chest of one who carries me through?
I hope so. I do hope so. I need some rest.
Faith like a child, huh?