The first day of vacation was… unexpected. And I should have seen it coming.
We've fallen into the the wonderful habit of taking the same vacation every year. We borrow my in-law’s RV and find a cozy campground along the shore of Lake Michigan for a good, long stretch. We keep things simple so that we can keep ourselves together, trying to avoid filling up the hours with endless entertainments, simply allowing the days to unwind as they will so that we can do the same.
And the first day was just that. We woke up and had breakfast. I went on a bike ride. We spent hours on the beach. At the end of the day we stopped at Whippi Dip, our favorite little ice cream stand. Then, as the sun began to sink, it’s golden light held captive in the wafting smoke from all the evening fires being lit throughout the camp, I sunk into a hammock, exhausted.
I thought to myself, This isn’t working.
You see, in the cracks of all the things I’ve already said, there’d been all the same guiding, herding, laughing, whining, crying, and correcting that everyday brings when you have three kids, and my response to all of it was pretty much the same too. I was still riddled with hurry and impatience, with frayed nerves and too-quick words. I still wasn’t resting.
A few days before we’d left, I'd read these words:
Come to me all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. (Matthew 11:28)
I’d nearly cried. And then I’d kept reading, and I did cry.
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. (Matthew 11:29)
I can find rest for my soul? For me? My tears told me just how deeply I longed for that rest, deep down rest, all over rest, soul rest. And I gave myself a little pep talk. God’s giving you this word to get you through until vacation. He’s great like that. The rest you want is right around the corner. Just a few more days. Hang in there.
So there I was—literally hanging in a hammock on day one of vacation—feeling all the feelings that feel nothing like rest. But I was trying to rest. I’d turned off my email. I’d emptied my calendar. I’d erased my to-do lists. I even had the beginnings of a sunburn to show just how hard I was working at this resting thing.
The cicadas were singing in the trees as dusk fell and the campground grew quieter. And I grew quieter too. In my mind the words of Matthew 11 came floating into view, like the writing on the wall but intended for some other lucky soul. I looked at the lines and quickly latched onto the two phrases that had so deeply spoken to my longings:
I will give you rest.
You will find rest for your soul.
I was still pining for those things. And then the whole passage seemed to dissolve again. Only three words remained.
Come to me.
Oh how quick I’d been to skim right past those words. There’s a difference between weariness and readiness. Just because I was weary didn't mean I was ready to rest. In fact, like I said, I’d been working hard at resting. I’d been busy patting myself on the back for how restful I was being, and all the while my head and heart were working as hard as ever. I’d tried all the things other than the one thing I’d been told to do.
It’s like someone who’s been invited to dinner. But when they arrive they walk right by the welcome mat, going all around the house, banging on the windows, begging to be let in. I’d wanted in on the feast, but I’d ignored the front door. I’d looked for entry some other way. But the invitation read, plain as day: Come to me.
So I started trying that. Because nothing else was working. Because two weeks later, vacation was over. Because we can’t save up and stockpile a few weeks off and expect it to satisfy our bodies, our souls, our families, our workplaces, and all the rest. We have to find ways to rest in the midst of all of these things. No more of this just hang on a few more days… or weeks… or months stuff. I want to find rest now, in this moment, in the midst of the life I’m in, the work I’m given, the mission I’m on. That’s the kind of rest I want to taste. So I’m trying to regularly find the front door where the host stands, saying: Come to me.