252210350_02d933ecc7_b It’s Friday. My second-to-last class. I’m ready for the weekend. And we’re talking about creation and day seven and Sabbath. My notes blur a little bit and I blink back the tears. We’ve gone from classroom lesson to Bible study and I needed to hear it.

I’m reminded that I’m not defined by what I do, but who I belong to. And if He takes time to rest, then how much more do I need it? Do I really think my work is more vital than His?


 But all I can think about is the homework list I made last night and how long it is and all the things I need to do before Monday morning comes again.

And then it’s Sunday morning and the homework is done. Because after all, maybe if I would take those words from Friday to heart, I would find myself refreshed. I walk into the little white church with the bright red doors and there’s a hint of a hope that maybe I could belong here. And we worship, and the sermon is about Sabbath.


Okay, I’m listening.

I lean in a little bit more.

It’s the Gospel. It’s Jesus saying, “Come.” It’s the hope that I don’t have to be perfect, that I don’t have to preform, that I can just come. It’s an invitation to let go of my pride, to stop thinking that I have to do this on my own, and taste grace. And grace is sweet.

Grace is a Sunday afternoon nap. Grace is the crispness of fall. Grace is the weight of perfectionism slipping from my shoulders. Grace is laying by the stream listening to the water laugh. Grace is the whispers of the leaves above me. Grace is this, the whispers of my Father: I love to watch you play.

And grace brings her friend hope and the exhaustion is still deep, but the rest is deeper. And I am grateful.

Photo: Aleksandar Cocek, CC