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When I was younger, before I was ever married at all (even once), I was falling in love with a boy. Among other things, he’d hold my hand and recite monologues to me. The words he spoke were like a blanket; I’d draw them close, right up to my chin, and peak out from above. The world looked kind, I was warm, and time stood still.
These days, one of my girls will flop herself across my lap so I can scratch her back. She lays so still, willing the moment to last forever. She doesn’t need anything at all, just for me not to stop. Time stands still.
Once I heard someone say that the reason we love music—all of the distinct sounds organized in time, creating something beautiful together—is because it gives us a glimpse of life as it ought to be. Eventually the song ends, but for a moment, at least, we got to see something miraculous. Time stands still before the music stops and time once again determinedly marches on. In music, we get to witness melody and harmony and dynamics and crescendo and decrescendo—it all comes together in one point in time and tells one story and we love the story. We hope that our days are doing the same. We hope the decrescendos are leading to more crescendos—greater ones, even.
What I mean is that we find moments of synchronicity. We find moments when our body, mind, spirit, desires—they all show up at once, to the same spot (here). We become integrated. The scattered parts of us work in tandem and remind us to be—really, wholly, purposefully be. We find that time stands still and we are at one with our attention. Perhaps it is a back scratch, or a melody that mingles with the marrow in our bones. Perhaps it is a monologue we never knew existed but as we listen, we find it makes sense in a way that reminds us the human experience is not unique to us. And there is comfort in that.
Celebrate sensation, this boy would recite, while I’d raptly listen. Recall that secret place. You've been there, you remember: That special place where once- Just once- in your crowded sunlit lifetime, you hid away in shadow from the tyranny of time.
The monologue is from a show called The Fantasticks. I am a bad theater girl, as I didn’t grow up on a steady diet of musicals. A few, yes—Jesus Christ Superstar, of course, because it included direct quotes from scripture (even if it did boast some questionable theology, but my pastor parents overlooked that in favor of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s soaring rock opera melodies, and I’m so glad they did. I still belt out Mary’s song from time to time. I still find the lyrics from The Last Supper flitting through my mind as I go about my life:
Always hoped that I'd be an apostle.
Knew that I would make it if I tried.
Then when we retire, we can write the Gospels,
So they'll still talk about us when we've died.
*Side note: this serves as a reminder to expose my kids to music that is worthy of staying in their minds. Today, sure, but decades from now, too.
I’d never seen or heard about The Fantasticks, but when this boy recited it, time stood still. Just like that stirring line: That special place where once- Just once- in your crowded sunlit lifetime, you hid away in shadow from the tyranny of time.
It was very meta, actually—hearing him say those words, and realizing that it was exactly what was happening to me as he did.
Recently, I’ve dug up that monologue, just to sit in wonder at those words again. I have long since fallen out of love with that boy—but the words he recited still hold me.
My husband TJ and I have entered into a season where life is, for lack of a better, less-overused word: busy. I feel grateful to be busy doing things I mostly love. Or that are, at least, because of love. The many little lunches I make and hundreds of toys I put away—these aren’t exactly the stuff of dreams, but—mothering is.
It is it is it is.
And this season of mothering includes lots of strewn about toys and day after day after day that demands lunches. Though the work itself can feel small, the heart behind the work—the act of mothering that involves body, spirit, mind, soul, all of your hope, all of your humility, and more than you know how to give, really—is one of the biggest things I’ve ever witnessed.
A little while ago, I lay in bed, oddly unable to sleep. Most nights, I try as hard as I can to keep my eyes open a little bit longer, just to read one more page of a book. This is one of my favorite times of life. (I hesitate to say that, almost feeling guilty that I love it so much, considering it’s something I do entirely alone. But the act of reading a beloved book feels sacred and holy, like what food is for the body—the kind of thing that makes me better at spending time with others, so it is as much use to those I love as it is to me, I think.) I love sliding into bed at the end of a now well-worn day, my bones and spirit agreeing that tired is the appropriate response to it all, and my heart ready to dive into story and be told what to do, so to speak—or, for the time being, at least, no longer have to make any decisions for others, or even myself. Because some good author had the courage and fortitude to write enough words down to make an entire book and offer it up for people like me to reward myself with late into the night. But then the reward is never as long as I’d like, because sleep lays claim to me. It’s my turn with her, Sleep says, closing my book, laying me down, promising me a newness for tomorrow I couldn’t get any other way—not even through a book, as magical as they can be.
But on this one particular night, I kept closing my eyes and hearing the word sabbath on repeat. This went on for so long that I finally gave up on the quest for sleep, and decided perhaps I should learn more about sabbath.
So I asked the internet to tell me about the sabbath. See, I grew up with Sundays firmly in my mind as the sabbath. My parents worked hard on the first portion of every Sunday (still do), and took the rest of the day for sabbath. To me, this meant that for the remainder of Sunday, they basically did absolutely nothing. My mom wouldn’t even cook, bless her, and I sure see why now, but as a kid, I was left to do something we called scrounge. I’d sometimes venture to ask her if she was making dinner on a Sunday, and she’d tell me, It’s sabbath, Jess. You know that means it’s a scrounge day. And so, when I’d get inevitably hungry, I’d go into the kitchen and poke around. I’d find some food—nobody cared what it was, nobody even asked—and I’d eat it. I was scrounging for dinner. This was normal, this was sabbath. It meant the day started fun, I got to see my friends at church, and then if I was unlucky enough not to get invited to a friend’s house for the rest of the day, I was stuck at home with parents who stopped doing things in their once-a-week devotion to rest, naps, long endless football games on the television, and above all, no cooking of any kind, certainly not dinner. So I ate cereal or snacks or some kind of combination of the two and by Monday, I got a proper dinner again.
As a parent myself now, I feel like my mom had some solid boundaries and I’m so glad she gave herself a once a week day off from cooking for her family of seven. As a kid, though? I had no idea. It was boring. And I was left to scrounge.
That night of scouring the internet for words about the sabbath has led me to read the very excellent book, The Ruthless Elimination of Hurry (John Mark Comer). In this book that I highly recommend, I am learning that there is more to sabbath than scrounging. Exciting things, like it’s an act of resistance (Walter Brueggemann). What are we resisting? you might be perfectly reasonable to ask.
Think about it: The Jewish people had been enslaved in Egypt. The value of a slave is their productivity, that’s it. They are only ever as good as what they can do and how fast they can do it. But then God rescues His people. He frees them and says, No, no, no—Egypt had it all wrong. You are not worthy because you can make bricks and do it fast. You are worthy because you are mine, because I love you, because you are my children. So—take one day a week to stop working and remember that you are no longer slaves. Take one day a week to remember that you are not measured by what you do. Take one day a week to rest. Trust that I’ll give you what you need—even though you work less (a whole day less now). Resist the culture of being measured by what you do, resist the culture of being busy—always busy—and learn to rest regularly. Learn to stop working and relate—both to people and to God. And above all, learn to choose on a regular basis the most important thing: God and people.
In essence, God was like, For real, though, keep the sabbath.
This past Saturday, I attempted a full on sabbath. No work and lots of fun connection time with my family. We drove out to a place we’ve never been altogether. We walked around outside, amidst beautiful gardens and old dreamy buildings and meandering creeks. We soaked in autumn and all her fiery colors that shock me every year. We breathed and talked and the girls rolled down a huge grassy hill and nobody told them not to even though ticks are not quite done for the season (we checked them thoroughly before bed, don’t you worry). We ate dinner outside in Philadelphia. The girls did great. I mean, mostly—they’re still young, so I’ve learned that great means they only cried a little and it didn’t last all day and they only fought sometimes but they fought less than they got along.
But that night, I had to prepare for a music rehearsal I was leading the following day. I had to work a little. I forgave myself. I did a mostly-sabbath. I didn’t cook, though, mom! I’m working on it. And now, it’s in my mind. How do I resist the culture of being swallowed alive by busyness and consumerism and being measured by how much I do?
Sabbath.
Every week.
Active rest.
And you know what feels like a paradox?
I have to prepare to rest. It doesn’t just happen. Like, if I want to take a full day away from working—I have to think about it earlier in the week. But this makes sense—don’t we always prepare for the things that we value? If we value resisting a culture of hurry and debilitating busyness, then we will prepare to rest. For me, this means I need to think ahead to the day after sabbath—and get ready for that day a little earlier than normal. Isn’t it interesting that the ability to rest requires more discipline? More intentionality? And isn’t it also interesting that both discipline and intentionality bring greater freedom?
I’ve seen this with my babies (when I buckle down and get serious about a schedule for them, it frees us both up to sleep at night and be awake when appropriate).
I’ve seen this with my body and movement (when I sit in the momentary discomfort of whatever exercise I am training my body to do, it actually leads to greater comfort and freedom of mobility and ease in general).
And I have a feeling that rest, connection, a time to stop working (in combination with also working hard the other six days of the week), and the discipline of sabbath—of perhaps even regularly finding that special place where once- Just once- in your crowded sunlit lifetime, you hid away in shadow from the tyranny of time— will also lead to greater freedom. (Also joy, peace, and clarity, but really, sabbath had me at freedom).
Finding moments where time stands still, where I’m not under the clock, when I am playing and resting and connecting regularly—alongside all the work that I am grateful to do—is crucial. Crucial enough to write it down here and invite you to think about it with me. If you’re also busy, maybe this is a lifeline. A built in margin that allows us to embrace life because it’s not just a slog. There’s work, for sure, and that’s a good thing—but there is also rest, connection, this innate understanding that we are not simply what we do.
There is a story in the New Testament that hints at sabbath and pause and respite and connection. Jesus is very close to a family of two sisters and a brother. When He visits, the one sister, Martha, is busy making sure everything is perfect for Him. She is working hard. The other sister, Mary, is sitting at His feet, listening to Him, spending time with Him. She doesn’t hurry; time stands still. Martha, noticing that Mary isn’t working, gets angry and asks Jesus to tell Mary to help her. Fair enough, right? I think we could all feel that way.
Jesus’ response, though, is a masterclass in life. He simply tells Martha, “You are worried and upset about many things, but few things are needed—indeed only one. Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her.” (Luke 10:41-42)
I took an Adult Psychology class in college, and I remember the professor saying, “At the end of every person’s life, nobody ever looks back and wishes they’d worked more. They always, without fail, wish they’d spent more time with the people they love.” Realizing that before your deathbed sounds like it’d be a helpful tool to navigate priorities, right?
Sabbath is a way to make Mary’s choice regularly, once a week. It’s a way to simplify life, remember that few things are needed—actually, only one. Presence. Both of God and each other. We can say this over and over again, but cultivating sabbath is a way to live this.
Amen - we have always kept Sunday as "our day" even when the kids were young - sundays were sacred. It's heartwarming to see my son help his type a gf to join in on sacred sundays. We all need this it these days. Nothing wrong with it. Beautiful words 🙏🏻
Rest, glorious rest. More people need to talk about how important it is to rest. To chill. To just be. And not DO!!! We live in such a hustle culture and I hope more people will realize the power of rest. Loved reading this! 💕