the year i forgot how to rest
There was a year — I can’t tell you which one, exactly — where I forgot how to rest. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. I didn’t crash or burn out in a big way. I just... slowly stopped noticing the difference between being busy and being alive. My days were full. Meals to cook, a house to care for, people to check on, bills to remember, and a quiet ache I didn’t always name but always felt. My Bible stayed open on the kitchen table, but I mostly walked past it. I kept telling myself I’d sit with it when I had more time. But rest never comes when you treat it like a reward. It comes when you remember it’s a need. I think it started after my youngest moved out. The house went quieter than I was ready for, and instead of sitting with the stillness, I filled it. I over-volunteered. Said yes to everything. Rearranged furniture at 10 at night just to avoid the silence. I baked too much. Cleaned too much. I even alphabetized my spice rack — and I don’t even use half of those spic...
