Given that we are at our best living in the present, it probably doesn’t matter—the worst is whatever pulls you out of the here and now.

But in the event you might be entertained thinking about it, let me tell you that when it comes to your body, losing time is far easier than gaining time.

How do I know?

Jet lag. That disruption in your body’s circadian rhythm that happens when you get on a plane and skip through time.

Your body is happily (for the most part) following a 24 hour cycle dictated by when the sun shines and when you eat, sleep, and exercise. Put yourself in another time and place, however, and you disrupt pretty much all of your body’s systems—nervous, endocrine, metabolic, digestive, etc.

And they don’t all readjust at the same time, so you can end up feeling quite discombobulated.

When I go back to the U.S. (east to west), I retreat 10 hours into the past and I actually look forward to it because suddenly it’s easy for me to go to bed on time and to get up early and it only takes a few days to adapt.

Dropping myself 10 hours into the future (returning to Lebanon—west to east), however, is brutal. I wake up at 2 am and if I can’t coax my body back into a state of slumber, I get up, feel great, fall in love with the early morning hours and tell myself it will all be OK, but then I drag through the day like a zombie before collapsing into bed at around 7 that night. Every day is different and it takes over a week to adapt.

But, I do adapt.

Humans are actually pretty good at adaptation.

So, if you’re slipping into the past and possible regrets, or feeling lured into the future with its potential worries, rest assured that you can—and will—adapt back to the present.

I’m back in Lebanon, which means jet lag that works in my favor. No temptation to stay up late (last night I went to bed just after 7 pm) and it’s easy to get up early. For a couple of weeks I will enjoy the bliss of being an early riser, ready for the day.

After getting enough sleep, the practice that most blesses me in every way is having enough time to sit in God’s presence without the rushed feeling that time is running out.

So, not long after 4 am, I made my way through the nighttime shadows of the hallway into our kitchen where I felt for the keys (that we intentionally leave in a certain place on the countertop).

Opening the front door slowly (every sound echoes loud through the stairwell of our building), I slipped out and climbed the two flights of stairs to the metal door that opens onto the roof.

The lights of Beirut shimmered through the haze of an August night and ships on the sea beyond cast their sparkles on an expanse of midnight blue.

I sat down. I listened. I talked as things came up.

Then, around 5:30 I reached for my keys on the cement slab beside me and realized with a feeling of dismay (and unbelief, because we’ve learned our lesson and know how to avoid these things) that I had grabbed the wrong set of keys.

No rush of adrenaline, panic, or utter frustration. Not even a sinking feeling. Just a complaint that this was going to be very inconvenient and uncomfortable.

At this hour, I would not be waking the neighbor downstairs to ask if I could drag a ladder to their back porch from which to climb up to our balcony.

Hoping that our friend at work who manages the copies of all the keys was home, I texted hesitantly.

“I trust you are peacefully sleeping and this will not disturb you—until you wake up…”

My phone battery registered 8%, so I turned it off with plans to turn it back on to check incoming messages every so often.

Then I returned to my spot on the roof—with zero warm fuzzy feelings.

“OK,” I said to myself. “there’s nothing I can do so I may as well keep praying.”

And with that I started walking back and forth, around and around. In the dark, I noticed a cat watching me from a balcony higher up on the building next door. A dog barked a warning and I saw a jackal run up the narrow street below and then retort in a pitiful squeaking sound. A rooster crowed as a call to prayer floated from the Mosque in the valley below.

I prayed for the people I always pray for and others as they came to mind. I meditated on some of my go-to Bible promises and passages.

Somewhere along the way, I became aware of a slight change in the shade of the sky.

Dawn?

Turning my gaze to the mountains behind me in the east, my hope was confirmed—we were turning closer and closer to the sun, and its light was already reaching for us, pushing back the cover of night.

The dawn came so gradually that I couldn’t note the changes of colors from one moment to the next, but there was change.

The experience of staying with the slow shift from pitch dark to periwinkle blue with tinges of orange pink and full-on daylight was worth the whole unplanned experience.

Time. Everything takes time.

And most change is subtle.

The time of waiting forced on me now felt like a luxurious gift—a gift that afforded me more time to adapt to my current home after being gone for several weeks, and to think unhurriedly about upcoming tasks and plans—all in the context of intentional awareness of God and a growing sense of his loving presence.

The experience didn’t bring a rush of excitement or feeling that I was now ready to go out, seize the day and swing it around by its tail. Neither did it apply pressure to take note and record any insights gained before I forgot them.

What I did experience was a profound sense of peace. Of knowing and being known. Of rest.

Which isn’t a bad way to start a day.

When I turned on my phone, I was delighted to see our friend had responded and shortly after 6:30 am I was able to get into our home.

Time is not against us. It is a gift.

My uncle, my dad’s oldest brother, chose hospice two weeks ago. One week ago, he breathed his last.

I am grateful for the small mercies that hide in the folds of disaster—I just happened to be in a place at a time that allowed me to visit him, to remember with him the value of his almost 90 years, and the ways in which he has blessed us.

There was a time I avoided facing the reality of death as if my life depended on it. But over time, the fears I ignored took up so much space inside of me that there wasn’t much room left for the joy of being alive in the given moment.

My watershed moment came four years ago, at the funeral of someone I didn’t even know.

***

I didn’t know Hermano Salvador. Still, I weep.

Why do I cry like this when this is not my own world shattering loss? I will go home to my normal routine. I will wake up with the privilege of calling my dad whenever I want.

Loved ones file by on the rich carpet of living green, pausing for one last goodbye at the place where the earth opens, a gaping mouth of soil set to swallow the casket.

We sing hymns while the earth is filled in, watching as dust returns to dust beneath a mound of lavish bouquets.

“Thank you for coming…” my friend hugs me and I hold her close, remembering our prayers for her papi.

I weep for Edlin. For the sadness that will follow her on the long road ahead.

But also, I weep for Brian, who is still hanging on for dear life.

I weep for my parents and the passage of time. Eighty some years makes one aware of an actual timeline with an endpoint.

I weep for myself. For my children on the day when they will understand and weep themselves.

I weep for all of us. For the hard parts of being human.

And all these tears bind my heart to the human family in ways that allow me to acknowledge our shared fate.

These tears wash my soul. They clear out those places hiding the anxiety and fear, until there comes a calm acceptance, a peace, a clarity.

The burial is over and it’s time to go. Four generations of women stand side by side and whisper, “now.”

Suddenly, white balloons float upwards, carried by a lifting breeze into a sea of blue sky.

I stand gazing up.

“This same Jesus will come again…” the angel told those disciples of Jesus so long ago (Acts 1:11).

And the clean places in my soul are filled with the hope that we will live again.

Back when Daniel was fine-tuning his decision on a college major, Uncle Ben said something that Ricardo and I go back to time and again:

“By the time you get out of college, Daniel, there will be so many new discoveries that you might end up doing something that doesn’t even exist as a career yet.”

(my paraphrase)

While we do our due diligence, wrestle, pray, think, and find our way, we don’t have to carry the weight of nailing it perfectly right now.

There are too many unknowns.

Unforeseen obstacles, interruptions, detours.

Unexpected surprises, opportunities, and doors flung open.

As the Quakers say, way opens.

For those times when you haven’t got it all planned out and organized.

For the times you are anguishing over the perfect thing to do.

For the times you are trying to figure out what will make the biggest impact.

You can relax.

Good things are already in the works.

There is more action behind the scenes than you could ever imagine. There are more possible good endings to this story than you can conceive of.

And you are making an impact right now, at this very moment—eternity will tell you all about it.

So for now, rest and look for the ways God is moving in the here and now.

May your rest be sweet.

Yesterday, while moving purposefully towards my uncle’s front door, I paused unconsciously for a quick sniff at a pretty flower floating above a thorny bush that bordered the walkway.

Suddenly, I was sinking my face into the bosom of a velvety rose, only aware of the intense fragrance that filled my nostrils and permeated every bit of my awareness.

For a few precious seconds, I knew nothing but the absolute beauty of that smell—until, that is, the reverie was interrupted (as it often is) by an analytical thought:

Why don’t all roses smell like this? Is this even real?

As it turns out, the most fragrant roses tend to have softer petals that bruise more easily and are more susceptible to disease. Their flowers open readily and tend to wilt more quickly than the roses that you see for sale.

Commercial growers know that florists (and most everyone else) want their roses to be good-looking and long-lasting. So they breed the flowers to be able to

• last a long time on the bush and in a vase

• have thick, durable petals that ship well

• maintain a perfect and stereotypical rose shape

• bloom continuously

• be disease resistant

• have bright, consistent colors

Those beautiful roses you bought at the grocery store don’t have much scent at all because growers have prioritized these characteristics over fragrance, channeling the plant’s resources towards that end.

Even roses can’t do it all.

What a relief to remind ourselves that we don’t have to channel our all our energies into achieving a standard that does not belong to us at the expense of containing the innate beauty God has placed inside of each one of us.

We don’t have to “breed” anything out.

Whether you are delicate and fragrant, or sturdy and strong, or have the genes to live to be 100 years old, may you delight in the being God has created in you, in your life, and in your unique capacity to make this world better.

Take a deep breath they say. But how about we just skip to the big exhale?

We take in so much information, but, really, it is what we let go of that creates the internal space to find our grounding.

Letting go settles us, letting us live from a place of rest.

Of course, this letting go, like respiration, is something we’ll likely need to do over and over and over again. New challenges will come, but with them come the opportunity to practice—until letting go becomes easier, easy, and perhaps even as automatic as breathing.

It may take some rustling around before we can settle in—like our furry friends who, before lying down, scratch about, turning this way and that before finally nestling into a cozy place to doze off.

A couple of actual physical things you can do to facilitate letting go in your body—which goes a long way towards helping in other areas as well—are facilitated sighing and myofascial release self-treatment.

Letting go of tension creates conditions for your body to heal itself—something I see often as an MFR therapist. In spite of the sound physiological explanations for treatment outcomes, people often describe what I do as magic or miraculous. Someone even calls it “abracadabra”.

We are so used to trying hard and to forcing things that when we get results from simply letting go, we don’t know how to explain it.

In the spiritual realm, I suppose we would call this surrender. Letting go creates conditions welcoming to God and his work in our hearts and lives.

May you exhale and may your rest be sweet.

Last Saturday morning, we attended a prayer meeting concluding ten days of prayer organized to ring in the new year with hope and spiritual purpose.

During the evenings leading up to this final gathering, people had scribbled prayer requests onto squares of paper and stuffed them into a wooden box at the front of the church. Before taking these petitions outside to burn them in symbolic release to God, we gathered one last time.

Songs, thanksgiving, and prayer requests anchored fragments of theological discussion in response to selected readings.

Towards the end of one particular theological exchange, a devout Christian woman, mother of two grown children, raised her hand.

“How can I love better?”

She continued: “I read my Bible every day, I pray... but I still don’t love well.”

She did not cry, nor did she sound desperate. Just tired and sad.

After more discussion, we filed outside, organizing ourselves in a circle around a metal waste paper basket where Mayra, our leader, lit a handful of papers on the surface with a butane lighter.

Someone began to sing and we all joined in:

“Cuando el pueblo de Dios ora, suceden cosas…”

A brisk, chilling wind threatened the tiny flame and Mayra bent over to shield it, jiggling the papers to keep the fire going.

The sun sparkled brilliant in a sea of bright blue, lying to us about the temperature. Naked branches reached towards us from dormant trees lining the parking lot, telling the truth about winter.

Another puff of wind caught the edge of my poncho and I pulled it tight, swaddling myself in defiance to the cold reality.

We drew closer to the struggling flame with the hope that, truly:

“When God’s people pray, things happen.”

Does the dissonance between your good beliefs and your not good behavior ever cause you to doubt? Or feel discouraged?

Has anyone ever told you that if you just loved God, everything would come together--it would be easy because (and here is the very tired illustration), when you love somebody, you naturally want to make them happy?

(I cannot even count how many times I’ve heard variations on that theme).

But how do you make yourself love someone?

Love has to be more than just a decision, more than just doing the right thing.

Did you ever learn that memory verse song from 1 John 4:7-8?

“Beloved, let us love one another, because love comes from God. Everyone who loves has been born of God and knows God. Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love.”

That could make us feel even worse, unless we look at it as a diagnostic tool that points us in a more hopeful direction, a place where God is waiting to answer that prayer we have to “love better”.

Maybe we don’t know God.

Maybe we don’t know that God is love.

Maybe we don’t know that God loves us before we love him.

Because John keeps writing, and in that same letter, he says this truth:

“We love because he first loved us” (1 John 4:19)

You have to know that John was so sure about his beloved status that referred to himself as “the disciple that Jesus loved” in his account of Jesus’ ministry (John 13:23).

He got it.

We don’t need peer reviewed journal articles or complex theological treatise to prove that loving comes easier when we know we’re loved.

So maybe we can rest from the whole “loving better” burden and, instead, pray:

“Help me to receive love.”

And perhaps one actionable step in that direction might be to notice love in the world around us, to notice the way love enters our moments and to reach out and take it into our hearts with thanks.

What are some ways that love hovers near you?

In the laughter of someone listening to your funny story?

The attention of someone who holds your disappointment?

A compliment that demonstrates you are seen and appreciated?

An expected or unexpected text, card, or gift?

The adoration of a pet?

Beauty that tugs at your heart in ways hard to explain (artfully arranged food, flowers, stars, waterfalls, birds...)?

A meal shared in good company?

A circle of people, resisting the cold to share their hopes and desires with each other and with God?

Perhaps if we turn our hearts to notice the love that lies in so many ordinary things of life, we will create openess in our hearts to hold the good head knowlege that God is love and that he loves us... even while we aren’t loving.

May the burden of our failings fall away and may we rest in Love--right where we are.

During the time that I was sick, Ricardo read me this Psalm. I return to it often. May it bless you.

“Bless the Lord, O my soul,
and all that is within me,
bless his holy name!
² Bless the Lord, O my soul,
and forget not all his benefits,
³ who forgives all your iniquity,
who heals all your diseases,
⁴ who redeems your life from the pit,
who crowns you with steadfast love and mercy,
⁵ who satisfies you with good
so that your youth is renewed like the eagle’s.

⁶ The Lord works righteousness
and justice for all who are oppressed.
⁷ He made known his ways to Moses,
his acts to the people of Israel.
⁸ The Lord is merciful and gracious,
slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love.
⁹ He will not always chide,
nor will he keep his anger forever.
¹⁰ He does not deal with us according to our sins,
nor repay us according to our iniquities.
¹¹ For as high as the heavens are above the earth,
so great is his steadfast love toward those who fear him;
¹² as far as the east is from the west,
so far does he remove our transgressions from us.
¹³ As a father shows compassion to his children,
so the Lord shows compassion to those who fear him.
¹⁴ For he knows our frame;^[a]
he remembers that we are dust.

¹⁵ As for man, his days are like grass;
he flourishes like a flower of the field;
¹⁶ for the wind passes over it, and it is gone,
and its place knows it no more.
¹⁷ But the steadfast love of the Lord is from everlasting to everlasting on those who fear him,
and his righteousness to children’s children,
¹⁸ to those who keep his covenant
and remember to do his commandments.
¹⁹ The Lord has established his throne in the heavens,
and his kingdom rules over all.

²⁰ Bless the Lord, O you his angels,
you mighty ones who do his word,
obeying the voice of his word!
²¹ Bless the Lord, all his hosts,
his ministers, who do his will!
²² Bless the Lord, all his works,
in all places of his dominion.
Bless the Lord, O my soul!”

English standard version

Sometimes we forget. Sometimes we don’t really believe it. Sometimes we don’t even know.

President Abraham Lincoln welcomed in the new year in 1863 with the Emancipation Proclamation—declaring freedom for all enslaved persons throughout the United States.

Unfortunately, this did not usher in the end of slavery. There were those who did not want the news to get out and follow-through required military enforcement.

So there were many people who had no idea that they could now claim their own personhood. That they no longer had to work for free. That they were, indeed, free.

Some 250,000 people in Texas alone.

On June 19, 1865, over two years after the Emancipation Proclamation, General Gordon Granger made it Galveston, Texas, where he announced the news—but it would take several months for it to reach all those people. Many wouldn’t find out until after the harvest was done.

There are many reasons why a person might miss out on the good news that we are free. But let’s not let one of them be because we ourselves don’t really believe it. That we let ourselves forget.

African Americans began celebrating June 19 (which came to be known as Juneteenth) as Independence Day from slavery—and today everyone in the United States gets to celebrate it as a national holiday.

Juneteenth happens to fall on the day after my birthday. It is a gift to celebrate freedom and to be reminded how history can repeat itself—to be on the alert.

Is there any good news that you are having trouble believing?

In what ways do you feel stuck, limited, bound up right now?

What external factors are involved?

Are there things that are simply not OK that you are ignoring?

What can you do?

Where do you feel tied up inside?

What outside voices and inherited patterns pull you back, away from freedom to live and be?

What voices do you give authority to?

What would it feel like to really believe?

Let’s claim our freedom and, in turn, show up in the ways that only we can to extend that knowledge and possibility to others—wherever we can.

“I, yes I, am the one who comforts you.
So why are you afraid of mere humans,
who wither like the grass and disappear?
Yet you have forgotten the Lord, your Creator,
the one who stretched out the sky like a canopy
and laid the foundations of the earth.
Will you remain in constant dread of human oppressors?
Will you continue to fear the anger of your enemies?
Where is their fury and anger now?
It is gone!
Soon all you captives will be released!
Imprisonment, starvation, and death will not be your fate!
For I am the Lord your God,
who stirs up the sea, causing its waves to roar.
My name is the Lord of Heaven’s Armies.
And I have put my words in your mouth
and hidden you safely in my hand.
I stretched out the sky like a canopy
and laid the foundations of the earth.”

(Isaiah 51:12-16 NLT).

This week, a friend celebrated her birthday by inviting a group of us over to make our own teacup flower arrangements.

First, we soaked a cube of green foam, which we learned is called oasis, and then stuffed it in the tea cup. We cut the ends of our flowers at an angle to give them the best chance to stay hydrated and fresh. Finally, we poked those flower stems into the oasis one by one.

I happened to be sitting next to the person guiding the process and decided this was the perfect opportunity to learn what is required for making a proper bouquet

“How about I just copy you and you explain what you’re doing at each step so I can learn?” I suggested.

“Sure,” she replied graciously.

But by the time I had finished stripping the leaves off of my roses and yellow daisies, I looked over and she was already halfway done creating her bouquet.

And it occurred to me that this moment designed for camaraderie around a shared delight in beauty was in danger of becoming yet another task to be mastered.

Hardly restful and certainly not the intent of the gathering.

So I began to play with the flowers and imagine how I would like to see them arranged in the tea cup—which turned out to be both freeing and fun.

As we chatted around the table, bouquets emerged that were as lovely and unique as each woman creating them.

And I am wondering what other endeavors might be more pleasurable if approached with the spirit of discovery.

Try testing your range of motion before and after – you will likely be surprised to notice that you have improved freedom of movement.

1. Lie comfortably on your back.

2. Weave your fingers together and place both hands behind your head, cradling the back of your skull. (If one shoulder is uncomfortable in that position, just use one arm and hand.)

3. Keep your head still and resting on your hands — do not rotate it. Using your eyes only, look as far to the right as comfortable. Hold for 30–60 seconds.

4. Bring your eyes back to center, keeping your head still.

5. Now look as far to the left as comfortable. Hold for 30–60 seconds.

Note: Within the 30–60 seconds you may swallow, yawn, or sigh — this is a good sign that your autonomic nervous system is relaxing.

Test your range of motion, turning your head from side to side and notice how it feels.

Take a deep breath and exhale.

Repeat as desired.

Sometimes it isn’t as simple as just choosing rest.

Sometimes you have to work to rest—but be aware that your notions of what work is may look very different from the kind of work rest requires.

Work can look like waiting or like holding your emotions/reactions/discouragements without tossing them onto someone else. It can also look like getting help—which may mean tossing them onto someone who can help you contain them.

Even “casting your cares” on Jesus can look a lot like work—because you may have to do it over and over and over again before the stuff stays with him.

Persist. Stick with the discomfort.

Avoidance is not the kind of work we’re looking for here.

Know that these seasons of life don’t last forever.

This too, as they say, shall pass.

Or maybe we are the ones who pass through?

Rest is waiting and we will find it.

I don’t think anyone’s going to say out loud: “I have to be an expert,” but there’s an assumption that if you’re an adult, you should (by now) have most everything figured out and organized for responsible living.

The unspoken expectation that we “should know” is a burden. Letting go of the pressure to know it all, however, is liberating. We are free to go through life as learners and this has several perks...

*It frees us from being on the defense and having to be right.

*It moves us away from procrastination (the paralysis of not doing anything for fear we’ll do it wrong, or that we aren’t “ready”).

*It fosters curiosity and the wonder of discovering something new.

*It helps us tackle new challenges and learn/grow, instead of getting stuck in the status quo or giving up.

*It improves our relationships by opening us to listen and learn from others, to see them as allies rather than competitors.

The invitation to rest is also an invitation to learn:

“Come to Me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.. learn from Me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.”

-Jesus (Matthew 11: 28-29 (Berean Study Bible)

I just want to remind you that1:

God’s voice convicts you of sin and draws us to himself. Satans’s voice condemns you. and drives us away.

God’s voice tends to still you. Satan’s voice tends to rush you.

God’s voice reassure’s you. Satan’s voice frightens you.

God’s voice enlightens you. Satan’s voice confuses you.

God’s voice encourages you. Satan’s voice discourages you.

God’s voice comforts you. Satan’s voice worries you.

God’s voice calms you. Satan’s voice obsesses you.

May you pause long enough to notice the voices in your head and to align yourself with the right one… the One who gives us peace and rest.

In honor of Mother’s Day (which is this Sunday for many countries around the world) here’s an invitation to rest tucked into the story of my own peripartum anxiety (bordering on panic).

This piece originally appeared in Legacies of Faith—a devotional book published by the non-profit organization, Helping our Families).

***

We are the Moms, the ordinary women with a role that assumes superpowers and sainthood. Sometimes we pull it off and sometimes we don’t. Mostly we’re hanging on for dear life, growing up all over again, and just trying to get it right. And we are far too familiar with worry, fear, anxiety--even panic.

Thirty-six hours after giving birth to my four-and-a-half-pound preemie, a paralyzing fear leaked through my joy and flooded my heart.

“Do you think I’m having panic attacks?” I timidly directed my question to the two physicians standing at the foot of my hospital bed. I tried to describe my anxious feelings and the sense that something was wrong.

They laughed.

Certainly their cheerfulness was intended to dispel my concerns, but there was no ignoring the terror we’d been through. Medical staff I’d never seen had stopped in to see for themselves that everything had turned out well. One called it a miracle, another declared, “someone was looking out for that baby!”

Panic seemed like a reasonable emotional response to me.

Early on in the pregnancy I’d been told that my baby “stopped growing three weeks ago” because my uterus was “a hostile place”. How does a mother bear the thought that her own womb is unsafe for her baby?

They raced me to Bronson Hospital in an ambulance, ran me through the emergency department on a stretcher, and then rolled me into a hospital bed while someone rushed to get magnesium sulfate into my veins. Things started turning for the worse and they induced labor.

It had taken days and a call to the regional neonatal center for my medical team to identify the underlying cause--preeclampsia. Of course, the one and only ER TV episode I have ever seen in my life had to be “Love’s Labor Lost,” in which the physician initially misses the mom’s preeclampsia--and she dies. I was filled with fear and couldn’t shake the heavy feeling that accompanied a vivid mental image of that solitary father in an empty room, looking down at the newborn in his arms.

The utter relief of hearing Gabriel’s squeaky cries was brief. He was four weeks early and couldn’t keep his temperature up. The pediatrician, concerned about infection, admitted him to the special care nursery. Meanwhile, my blood pressure remained elevated and a well-meaning friend warned me about another woman who’d had a stroke two weeks after giving birth.

“You’re fine,” one of those laughing doctors had assured me.

He added, “Just wait until your baby’s a teenager, then you’ll know what a panic attack is!”

I didn’t have to wait that long. Twenty-three months passed and I was birthing again, mercifully under more average conditions. However, three days postpartum, the return of hormonal chaos and sleep-deprived nights upset my faultlines, triggering a series of tsunami-sized waves of panic. My blood pressure started to spike, and I worried about having a stroke.

Days passed and the attacks continued to come--seemingly out of nowhere. My husband held me, read from the Psalms, and prayed. A friend stopped by and assured me, “This will pass.” It was hard to believe.

A week later, while setting bowls of oatmeal on the table, the panic hit again, full force. Walking over to the sofa, I slumped into the cushions and leaned into the armrest. I closed my eyes over the tears and whispered, “Please God, help me.”

At once, words entered my thoughts, clear and direct:

The Lord will fight for you, you need only to be still.

A new visual captured my imagination: God, like a mighty warrior, went wielding a sword and clearing a path before me, while I rested, waiting until it was safe to continue on.

I looked for the words God had spoken to me in scripture and found them in Exodus 14:14, words spoken to a terrified people fleeing slavery. God had spoken those same words to me. The relief was immediate and I knew that the panic was gone for good, but the work of giving up worrying had only begun.

Worry doesn’t feel as damaging as panic. It doesn’t typically hit like a tsunami, either. It’s more like a series of persistent, small waves, relentless in their movement to erode the ground of our peace and joy.

That miracle grounded my faith, but the challenge of letting God fight for me in the day-to-day worries lingered.

The tricky thing with worry is that it masquerades as a noble pursuit when we apply it to valid concerns, especially spiritual issues. But the anxiety it produces does absolutely nothing to help us or our children. Worrying easily becomes a habit that fuels a tug-of-war between regret over the past and fearful imagining of the future so that the little joys of the moment are lost--like unopened gifts.

Every day dawns with endless opportunities to notice the worries that nag their way into our minds and get lodged in our hearts. However, we can be still, we can notice what’s going on inside, and ask for help.

Worry is a war against us, but we will win this war because we are the Moms. We are the ordinary women with a Mighty Warrior and Perfecter of Faith fighting on our behalf.

We need only to be still and let Him do the fighting--and remember that, after all, He’s the one who saves us and our children.

“I will contend against him who contends against you, and I will save your children” (Isaiah 49:25).

May we worry less and rest more.

After a long night of travel, Ricardo and I sat in a transit room (I cannot bring myself to call it a lounge), waiting for Uniformed Man behind The Desk to send someone to collect our luggage from the baggage carousels located downstairs—on the other side of customs and immigration.

We had bid our farewells to colleagues with whom we’d travelled thus far and were eager to get our bags, move as efficiently as possible through the airport’s complicated transit routine, and be on our way home.

The transit routine is unusual enough that our colleagues, for whom this was the final destination, were alarmed when they noticed Ricardo’s suitcase on the carousel . They quickly texted Ricardo:

“We found your suitcase on the baggage claim belts here—clearly marked as this being the final destination… we will take it with us…”

Around that time, the baggage porter arrived and informed us that Ricardo’s suitcase had evidently not arrived.

Happily, we were able to call our friends in time and, happier still, communicate what had happened effectively enough to convince the porter to try one more time to get the bag.

Our friends made it to the baggage claim carrousel right as the porter arrived.

And I laughed, remembering how I sometimes feel responsible for the whole world and rush in to help.

What a blessing our friends checked in to make sure that taking the suitcase was (or was not) the helpful thing to do.

Isn’t it a relief to know that we don’t know everything and that our responsibility has limits?

We can notice, take a deep breath, send a text, ask some questions.

We can relax.

Until next week, may your rest be sweet.

Alicia

Quenched. Satisfied. Relieved.

The longer the deprivation, the more overwhelming the relief.

Perhaps you’ve experienced that with rest. You strive, worry, avoid to the point of exhaustion and then collapse into rest—a rest that feels so good you just might find yourself in a little cycle: strive, worry, avoid-crash-repeat.

But what if we could stay in a place of rest?

There are a whole host of things that make ongoing rest difficult and even unappealing: distraction, boredom, restlessness, habit, culture, unfamiliarity and inexperience with the long-term benefits of staying

By all means, let us keep choosing rest when we realize how much we need it, let us keep accepting Jesus’ invitation:

“Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”

(Matthew 11:28-29 ESV)

But what is even better than coming is staying.

“Take my yoke upon you… learn from me…”

What does staying in a place of rest look like?

What does it feel like?

What are the obstacles and challenges to staying?

What makes it easier?

I invite you to reflect on these questions and I will be back on Friday…

Do you ever feel like you’re going up in smoke—anger over the state of the world fueling a burning fire in your very bones?

Or maybe you feel like an imprint on the sand after failing to jump one of daily life’s endless waves.

Whether it’s the horror of news headlines (I can sometimes witness in real time from the rooftop of our apartment building in Beirut), or the urgent concerns that crop up (under my own ceiling), I know where to go.

Again and again I take Jesus up on his invitation:

“Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”

(Matthew 11:28-29 ESV)

The very thought of someone who can contain my very self1 is a respite like no other.

We can sit down in our own souls and meet God right where we are.

Exhale.

Trust.

Learn.

Get strength and wisdom to know how to fight and how to carry on.

But if we are really serious about living from a place of rest and peace, there’s something even more important than coming to Jesus…

More on that next time.

In the meantime, may you find rest for your soul

Alicia

Sometimes the words just can’t be collected into something meaningful that you can share with the world. I suppose this is a good time to borrow from someone else. I hope these words are encouraging.

(click on the audio above it was sent to this passage)

You may find comfort in Jesus’ Easter agenda:

• Fold up the burial clothes and set them aside, death to death. (John 20:6-7))

• Let Mary and the women know he is alive. (Matthew 8, Mark 16, Luke 24)

• Surprise two heartbroken followers with the good news (Luke 24:13–35))

• Spend the evening opening the minds of his disciples. (John 24:36–43)

I like Jesus’ priorities.

May you know in your heart of hearts that you are one of his priorities.

And that his agenda for you has nothing to do with exhaustion.