Yet even in the middle of the busy, there are sweet pieces of rest. Just Monday, I hiked high in the Cascades. After a bit of a climb, I sat on a rock on the edge of an alpine lake. Below me, my son was making quiet work of catching trout.
I lingered long and I was ripe for listening. The sound of melting snow, falling down the mountain in a steady rush. The call of a bird. The whisper soft of a little pika scampering on the rocks. No engines. No phones. No music save the song of His own spheres.
All this was metaphor, for He calls me to be still in Him alone, trading the thorns and thistles of striving for the milk and honey of Canaan. True rest is not something we do, it’s something He gives, all tied up with lavish grace.