How to Be Still

On a cool fall afternoon at the end of a long week of work, I stumbled upon a story from a popular online Christian magazine that reminded me of trouble from my ancient past: recovery from depression as a pastor’s wife. As I read, unease grew in my belly. Twenty years ago, as a new Christian, a greenhorn in the faith, I longed to be in full-time ministry. After all, I was a brand-new convert, cared deeply about others, and wanted to save everyone I met.

Fast forward to now: I am a woman firmly rooted in middle age, reading another’s tale of depression recovery. As I read, the woman’s honesty undid me. Her words of encouragement, endurance, and hope resonated within me when, all of a sudden, gasping for breath, I gripped my desk forcefully, overwhelmed by the sudden shaking sensation in my chest. Waves of discomfort roiled within me as I was inundated by a flood of . . . fear? Dread? Existential angst? Time slowed while my heart raced and my head swam. Breathing carefully, I regained my composure and laced up my sneakers for a walk around the neighborhood. The fresh air and gentle exercise moved me past the physiological overwhelm.

Or so I thought.

The next morning, telling myself the episode was simply yesterday’s story, I made a cup of tea and started my day with prayer, full of fresh hope and vigor, feeling grateful to be alive.

It didn’t last.

Constant dizziness became my unwelcome companion. Soon, I got the hang of the spells and could feel them coming, beginning at my forehead and reverberating down through my core until I could hardly stand without falling. Whenever the world began to spin, I called out to my husband and pressed my hands against the wall for support as I made my way to my desk.

The worst was at night, when I turned my head to roll over and the world began to gyrate in the darkness. My heart raced as I breathed, trying to calm myself. How was I supposed to work when I could barely sleep at night?

I continued my work as a counselor because I was afraid to take time off and afraid to rest. Who was I without my job? I had forgotten I belonged to Someone who practiced rest, and it took a while to remember.

Even though I’m a professional counselor, it has taken me decades to love myself. Much of my life’s work involves lovingly, graciously affirming myself as one of God’s beloved children, in part because it is a truth I didn’t learn growing up.

Many of us did not receive the love we needed in our families of origin, which has left us searching for something outside ourselves to satisfy us. This notion—that something outside ourselves can fix us—is a belief that only fuels personal suffering. It leads us to addiction, to thoughtlessly consume things like shopping, sex, booze, or busyness at breakneck speed.

Psychologist and theologian Wayne Mueller offers us a gentler perspective, one richly steeped in Judeo-Christian truth. In Sabbath: Finding Rest, Renewal, and Delight in Our Busy Lives, Mueller writes, “When Jesus says, ‘You are the light of the world,’ he is reaffirming this persistent luminosity, our hidden wholeness. As children of a beloved creation, we remain whole and good in spite of all our sorrows, sins, and weaknesses.”^[1] Our hidden wholeness is not related to our good works at all.

What if I needed to embrace myself just as I am? What I was already whole, already loved, and already good? What if I just needed to remember how to be still?

After several days of symptoms, I scheduled an appointment with my doctor, who diagnosed me with vertigo and prescribed medication and bed rest. When I reported this to my husband, he simply agreed and said, “That means no work, no exercising, no writing. Just resting.” I smiled weakly in relief, nodding my head in agreement.

Was my vertigo triggered by memories, or was it a medical condition brought about by stress? I didn’t and still don’t know, but gradually, each day, I felt a little better. My symptoms improved as I recuperated, my body developing a new rhythm of its own. In the mornings, I napped on the couch. During the afternoons, I read and meditated. I felt certain God still loved and cherished me.

Our culture leads us to believe we must work and be efficient at all costs, that our identify lies chiefly in what we do and not in simply being who we are. Sadly, this hurtful dynamic pervades the church, and many of God’s children are utterly exhausted, weary from too many “good works.” We need to relearn how to be still.

Through my own illness, and through the resulting enforces rest and stillness, I learned that God’s real and living presence is with us no matter what. The Holy One is with us in the cosmopolitan city of our success as much as in our wilderness times of perceived failures, of physical illnesses and losses. Perhaps even more at such times.

When we sit and pray in stillness for even a few minutes, , we return to the eternal truth that God designed us to rest, and not in order to make us more productive on the days we labor. We affirm the truth of our being when we stop striving and sit with our loving and compassionate God, who lives within and among us, who calls out to us in the spaciousness of time.

The psalmist knew when he penned, “Be still and know that I am God,” that times of silence and deep listening are holy opportunities to practice being loved as we are, not as punishment but as a gateway to another way of living. They are opportunities to remember who we belong to, to practice being cherished just as we are right now.

After the vertigo departed, I incorporated regular rest breaks throughout my days, using the Centering Prayer app, creating a sort of mini Sabbath for myself. Martin Buber confirmed the need for this kind of practice when he wrote in I and Thou that Sabbath occurs daily, and in fact, “several times a day.”^[2] Sitting in stillness, resting in God, is vital for human flourishing, for my soul and yours.

Rather than viewing ourselves as simply workers, we can return to rest and silence, solitude and stillness in tiny and joyful resistance. These moments help us practice is the truth at the heart of the Judeo-Christian story: that God loves us right now, especially as we rest.

^[1] Wayne Mueller, Sabbath: Finding Rest, Renewal, and Delight in Our Busy Lives (New York: Bantam Books, 1999), 42.

^[2] Martin Buber, I and Thou, trans. Walter Kaufmann (New York: Simon and Shuster, 1970), 30.

Jenn Zatopek is a recovering perfectionist, writer, and therapist from Texas. Her work has been featured in Ruminate Magazine’s The Waking, Fathom Magazine, SheLoves Magazine, The Glorious Table, and The Mustard Seed Conspiracy. When she’s not writing, you can find Jenn planting flowers and herbs in her garden. Jenn is a student at Brite Divinity School and writes about the intersection of psychology and spirituality at theholyabsurd.com and
@theholyabsurd.

Photograph © Nathan Dumlao, used with permission