Come. Take. Let.

God blessed the seventh day and declared it holy, because it was the day when he rested from all his work of creation” (Genesis 2:2-3 NLT).

My family moves fast. Speed became ingrained in our DNA at some point, and ever since, we’ve walked fast, worked fast, and felt impatient fast at people who loiter in grocery store aisles.

One unexpected result is that we’re also often late—running for that train out of Madrid (lung-bursting panting running, not a polite jog), praying for green lights, arriving at a theater just as the previews end. Because, I suppose, we know we can.

Sometimes, though, DNA mutates.

I chose restore as my “word” for 2019, and perhaps God was feeling ironic, or perhaps I don’t yet know what that word really means, but that the year felt anything but restorative. It felt more like loss, heartache, and pain. It felt like death and diagnosis, and neither felt good. I don’t know if you’ve had a year like that, but we’ve reeled a bit.

One of the diagnoses was mine, Ehler-Danlos Syndrome, something I’d never heard of, struggled to pronounce for weeks, and finally determined to work through and against. One of the effects of EDS is that I no longer move fast.

All of us have had to adjust—no one really knows how to slow down around this house. I am forever calling to my husband and daughter ahead of me on the sidewalk—“Wait for me!”—which makes me feel both incapable and deserted. Reality reminded me during our vacation last month that I will never run for a train again. We cannot be late.

Self-pity and resentment kick in pretty easily, though I know they don’t mean to leave me behind. (Have I mentioned that Enneagram 5s also hate to feel incapable? Yeah—a double whammy.) Curbs shout “Danger!” at me, stairs loom like Everests, and I have to ask for help to do the simplest of things.

It’s all so humiliating. So old-person feeling. So not my self-image of a freewheeling globetrotter, hustling for trains and effortlessly trundling a suitcase behind. So sloooow.

If God hasn’t been speaking restoration to me, what has he been speaking?

Then Jesus said, “Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you. Let me teach you, because I am humble and gentle at heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy to bear, and the burden I give you is light.” (Matthew 11:28-30 NLT)

I’ve loved these verses, leaned on them when I did, in fact, desperately need rest. Yet I’ve always looked on them as promises of rest—which they are—and missed the other promise there.

“Come to me. I will give you rest. Let me teach you.”

Jesus says he will teach me something while he gives me rest. While we fling ourselves at him and comfort ourselves with the rest part, how often have I asked—Yes, Jesus. please teach me while I’m here? Don’t simply give me a breather before I go back into the fray. Teach me in my slowness. Renew my heart and mind as much as my body. Let me see the parable unfolding in my life when I plod along, unable to do anything else, and listen carefully.

Did you notice the verbs here? Come to me. Take my yoke. Let me teach you. It’s all voluntary. Jesus doesn’t demand our attention and our willingness to sit in the classroom of slowing down. He asks us. He invites us. He gently offers a place to learn where the speed of life cannot intrude. We have to choose that offer. Come. Take. Let.

I could (and likely will) continue to chafe at the new me. I will almost certainly choose envy and frustration at times. I would prefer to choose this offer, though.

Can Jesus teach me to rest? If I slow down, will I be giving him room to teach me—room I haven’t always allowed for in my hurry to do and to go? Can I learn from this enforced deceleration?

Already, I’m finding the joy that comes from living present tense. I’m being taught to savor what I find right in front of me instead of racing off to a destination that might or might not be more important. I’m discovering that perhaps nothing matters more than the now.

Come. Take. Let. Those seem like good words to ponder in 2020.

Dear Lord, please help me to embrace not just the rest you offer, but the lessons you want to teach me through your rest. Help me to embrace a slower life shaped by your will rather than mine. Amen.

Scripture for Reflection

“For everything there is a season,
a time for every activity under heaven.

A time to be born and a time to die.
A time to plant and a time to harvest.

A time to kill and a time to heal.
A time to tear down and a time to build up.

A time to cry and a time to laugh.
A time to grieve and a time to dance.

Yet God has made everything beautiful for its own time.” (Ecclesiastes 3:1-4, 10 NLT)

“Look at the lilies and how they grow. They don’t work or make their clothing, yet Solomon in all his glory was not dressed as beautifully as they are. And if God cares so wonderfully for flowers that are here today and thrown into the fire tomorrow, he will certainly care for you. Why do you have so little faith?” (Luke 12:27-28 NLT)

“But Jesus often withdrew to the wilderness for prayer.” (Luke 5:16 NLT)

Reach for More

Come. When do you approach Jesus? Do you take time to come near, ask him to teach you? When can you create that space in your life? Write down your plan.

Take. Envision yourself lifting Jesus’ yoke. What does it feel like? What would it mean to pick it up? How does it look on your shoulders? What would have to come off your shoulders to make room for it?

Let. Close your eyes and ask him to teach you. Offer your heart and mind completely. Ask what he wants to focus on. If you hear nothing, that’s fine. Maybe it means not to strive for change but to listen.

Jill Richardson is a writer, speaker, pastor, mom of three, and author of five books. She likes to travel, grow flowers, read Tolkien, and research her next project. She believes in Jesus, grace, restoration, kindness, justice, and dark chocolate. Her passion is partnering with the next generation of faith. Jill blogs at jillmrichardson.com.

Photograph © Gaelle Marcel, used with permission