refusing rest
I blame the perfectionist in me for many wrongs; it’s the catchall scapegoat. Surely my worship is not disordered, my loves not in disarray. No, the reason I am warring inside myself is purely a result of my personality clashing with my circumstances.
I’m run down, to the point that I’ve lost my voice. I can barely whisper. I intended to visit a homeschool co-op this morning with my son. Small group is on the agenda for this evening. And I’m sending texts to opt out of both, feeling that icky twinge that means something is wrong. I usually interpret this as I’m wrong. But, logically, I know there’s nothing wrong with canceling when you’re feeling puny. So then my drive toward perfection is the likely culprit.
The problem, I think, is that all of this inward battling completely ignores my sin nature and my salvation, flesh and spirit, darkness and light. It’s a small thing. It’s a Tuesday morning, wet and gray out, children slapping together magnetic tiles while I sit in bed. The stakes were not high.
But that’s how it is most days, isn’t it? For me, anyway. The stakes are never terribly high; at least, not the daily ones.
I don’t want to cancel my plans, not because I strive toward perfection, and not because I’m an extrovert (I’m decidedly not). The thought of lounging in bed, working my way through the stack of books I have by my bedside table (an assortment of Rosaria Butterfield, a couple homeschool titles, and John Bunyan), drinking tea sweetened with honey, sounds glorious. But I can’t actually do it. Not without that icky feeling that I should be reading to my children (I can’t, though), putting away the laundry that’s been crumpled in the dryer for several days, or unpacking all the household items I hid when we replaced our flooring last week.
This morning, on my to-do list, I wrote rest. But I still don’t feel like I deserve it.
I serve a God who rested, who mandated a day of rest in the words he gave his people after their redemption. And even Jesus needed to nap.
When I refuse to rest, in some ways, I’m elevating myself above my Lord. It kind of reminds me of how we can cling to guilt and shame over sin, as though prolonged remorse will help earn our forgiveness. But it’s really pride, isn’t it, that refuses to see Jesus’s sacrifice as sufficient? We sin and think we need the blood of Jesus plus our own lingering guilt.
It’s the same today, I think. It is a strange shape of pride that makes me feel as though I haven’t earned my rest. I must do more, work harder, love better. My chores are incomplete, my children left unsupervised (although I’m just in the room next door). It isn’t my personality that keeps me from recognizing my human limits, it’s my pride. I don’t want to say I can’t accomplish anything right now. I don’t want to say I need to sit and rest. I don’t want to say that my plans for the day are going out the window because my body was incapable of functioning. I feel better about myself when I can point to what I’ve accomplished. I feel better when I can point to myself than when I can point to Christ and say what he accomplished on my behalf. I’d rather look to myself.
And then, mangled up with my pride, is ungratefulness. I need to do nothing today. And today is a day when I can. I don’t have to work. I don’t have to do any of the things on my schedule. Today is a day I can turn on Bluey and drink another cup of coffee. I can put off the laundry for another time; we have enough clean clothes already tucked away. My family can be a part of small group without me. I’m not the center.
I wish that, when I need to recognize my limits, I could do so with gratitude.
Today may be full of the mundane, but I hope that it will be one of true rest, and a day I can take the time to examine the pride and ingratitude in my heart, instead of bulldozing my way through a checklist and puffing myself up. I need to remember that there is nothing sinful about our limits. They can help us look up, instead of in, instead of out.
