If you’ve ever sat up all night in a hospital waiting room, then you know that there is no way to overestimate the gift of sleep.
One part peaceful oblivion, another part the gracious passing of time—in seasons of grief and hardship, sometimes sleep is the only thing you can do. It’s the easiest way to cross the wide open limbo of todays questions and tomorrows unknowns. But laying down to rest while life as you knew it is burning down around you? That can be extremely hard to do. And what if there is no sleep to be found? Does that mean there is also no provision of rest?
As I mentioned in Part One of this series, the themes of Rest and Sabbath have become hugely important to me since just before welcoming my third child in 2018. But what I didn’t mention, was that these themes of Sabbath and Rest also came to me in a season of deep suffering. And at first, it felt like the two didn’t mix.
In the fall of 2018, my eldest daughter Ellie, then five years old, was struggling through the worst of her celiac flare ups. Every other week she would be up all night sick and crying out in pain, and it felt like there was nothing I could do to stop it. I’ve written about that more in other places, and I’ve even had the opportunity to speak about it on a couple occasions, but the highlight of it is this: even in the midst of that intense season of fear, anxiety, and sleep deprivation—God still provided moments of rest for me.
It came in the form of a friend who picked up my three year old son after a two-day flare that left me exhausted. It came in the form of a newborn who mysteriously slept well on the nights I was up with my daughter. It came in the form of chocolate mousse and lentil soup dropped off—food that gave me the energy to keep going through the long hours of the night. In that season, God showed me in these intimate little ways, how deep his care was for me. Even though it didn’t look like an easy road, or an eject button out of the hardship, his provision was near.
After I had my twins, the weeks of sleep deprivation, turning into months, I knew I needed to reach out for that provision again. But I was angrier at God than I had ever been, and he felt far away and out of reach. I was unable to see the ways he might be providing in the midst of my day to day, though I was quick to blame him when anything went wrong. If this is where you are at too—please know that I understand. There is a darkness that cannot be circumvented, as much as we wish we could. More often the only way out, is through. And during this season of anger and grief, as I worked through the emotions, the trauma, and the physical pain surrounding the twin’s birth, the image that came to me was one of Jesus sitting on the rocking chair on my front porch—waiting. Just waiting. Patiently anticipating the day when I would once again invite him in.
In the past, I would have judged myself, or someone else, for not “trusting God” enough. But that prideful Grace is gone. Now, I believe that God knows better than anyone that trust is earned. The hard to wrestle truth is that, though he created us, and gives us breath in our lungs for each moment, we are no more inclined to trust in his goodness and provision than my children were the moment they were born. God knows our frame, he knows we are dust (Psalm 103:14). He knows how we are wired. He knows that trust is not created by a force of will. You cannot grit your teeth to more trust. There is no white knuckling your way to a faith that believes in the provision of God during your darkest nights—there is only living that experience for yourself, over, and over again. As therapist and author K.J. Ramsey teaches in her wonderful books that beautifully combine theology and neurobiology, trust must be built and experienced through our nervous system’s experience of felt safety. I believe that moments of rest in intense seasons can be an integral part of that.
I still remember it clearly—a night that would turn out to be one of the longest of my life. My daughter Ellie was on night two of a flare up that was making rest nearly impossible for us both. It was late. My other two children were in bed, and my husband was out of town on a business trip. I left her on the couch for a moment to go and fill up a glass of water for myself in the kitchen. And as I stood at the sink, drinking the water and the moment of relative peace, I began to realize this was what daily bread looked like. A moment at the sink where I gave my body what she needed. A few hours later, my daughter actually fell asleep for an hour, and I took that opportunity to enjoy the chocolate mousse my friend had dropped off earlier. I sat on the couch, and ate slowly. I let the chocolate melt on my tongue and I savored yet another moment of peace. And for that moment, it was enough.
There would be very little sleep that night. And it would still be days before my husband returned home from his trip. But little moments when I was able to breathe, to eat and drink, to soak up a moment of silence—those became the daily bread I asked God for. The daily bread that sustained me during an incredibly painful season of life. And those moments also built the Ebenezer stones—the stones by which I remembered the faithfulness of God, during a season when I had once again lost sight of his goodness. Those moments of experiencing God as faithful, good, and trustworthy as a result of his provision in a dark time, were the reason that I was able to open the front door of my house, look to that rocking chair where I imagined Jesus sitting and say: “You can come in now.”
God isn’t in heaven tapping his foot wondering when you’ll finally get your act together and trust him already. He knows you’ve seen darkness—he knows that sometimes the light feels impossible to find. He wants to be with you through the dark nights, so as the sky begins to lighten just a little bit with the coming of the dawn, he can remind you that he has been faithful all along. There is no impatience here. God is not afraid of the long game. After all, he has all the time in the world.
There is rest for you exhausted one—even though it might not look the way you wish, or expect. Be gentle with yourself as you learn to trust God’s provision for you, and be looking for the ways he shows up with the daily bread: the quiet moments that seem like nothing, but somehow become just enough.
From my tea cup to yours,
Gracie
I remember that night in the waiting room... thank you Grace 🥺😢💔🙏🏻🕯🕊❤️🩹🤍