It’s been a while since I’ve written here.

Life has been heavy.

Honestly, I’ve been in a bit of a fog—creatively, emotionally, spiritually.

I’ve felt stuck, craving some kind of direction.

I’ve wanted a rhythm, a reset, something steady to hold onto.

But instead, the days have just blurred together.

I’ve been overwhelmed, unsure, and more scattered than grounded.

And then, like only He can, God started speaking softly but clearly.

It wasn’t one big moment.

It was a series of little ones—quiet but persistent.

I’m doing a book study right now with a group of moms, and we’re reading Gentle and Lowly. And wow… this book has been wrecking me in the best way.

It’s all about the heart of Jesus—how He meets us with gentleness, not pressure.

How He invites us into rest, not performance.

Not once we get it all together—but right now, in the middle of the mess.

Then my devotional landed on Mark 1:35:

And that verse just stuck.

The very next day, I came across Psalm 23 again. Then Matthew 11.

And suddenly, it felt like everywhere I turned, I kept hearing the same word:

Rest.

At first, I brushed it off.

But God didn’t stop. He kept tugging.

And it finally clicked—this wasn’t just a suggestion.

It was an invitation.

A command.

A gift.

And if I’m being honest, it was also the exact thing I’ve been craving without even realizing it.

But What Is Rest, Really?

If you’re anything like me, the word rest almost feels laughable.

Even when I’m sitting down, my brain is going a thousand miles an hour.

I don’t really rest… even when I’m sleeping.

My body might be still, but my mind is running through to-do lists, emotions, memories, hopes, and fears.

It’s part trauma, part mom life, and part wiring I’m actively trying to rework.

So when I see the word rest in scripture or devotionals, I often think,

“Ha, that must be nice.”

But God is showing me that rest—true, biblical rest—isn’t about taking a nap or lighting a candle and hoping the noise goes away.

Rest is intentionally turning your heart toward God and laying down what you were never meant to carry.

It’s carving out even a few minutes of sacred space where your soul can breathe again. Where you stop trying to fix it all and simply surrender.

And I am learning that surrendering everything, not just my childhood.

Where you stop doing and start being—with Him.

Sometimes that looks like five minutes on the bathroom floor, praying with tired eyes and a Bible app open.

Sometimes it’s worship in the car while my daughter sings in the backseat and I cry silent tears at a red light.

It’s not picture-perfect.

But it’s real.

And it’s holy.

I’ve spent so long asking God for clarity, for routine, for direction.

And this week, He made it so clear:

Rest is the foundation.

This is where it begins.

With Me.

First.

And yet… I’ve had all the excuses.

I’m not a morning person.

I co-sleep with Luci, and if I even breathe wrong trying to get out of bed before her, she wakes up.

Every. Single. Time.

But here’s the thing—I do spend time with God in the mornings.

It just doesn’t always look how I think it “should.”

It’s not quiet.

It’s not polished.

Sometimes it’s distracted or rushed.

Sometimes I’m holding my Bible with one hand and cleaning up spilled milk with the other.

And still—He meets me.

But lately, I’ve been craving more.

Not more time or space, but more of Him.

More quiet.

More surrender.

More intention.

More focus.

Because if I keep letting life distract me, I’ll never actually hand over the things that are breaking me.

Lately, Psalm 23 has been anchoring my soul:

Sometimes God has to make us lie down.

Because we won’t do it on our own.

Not when we’re carrying grief, trauma, dreams, fears, or expectations.

Not when we’re chasing healing or control or trying to keep everything from falling apart.

But His rest isn’t about slowing down—it’s about surrender.

It’s not about doing nothing.

It’s about finally letting go and saying, “Okay, God. You can carry this.”

And yes—Jesus absolutely meets us at the dishwasher, in the car, during laundry, in the noise.

But this season?

I need more.

I need to be still—not just physically, but spiritually.

I need to stop striving.

I need to lay it all down.

Just a few intentional minutes of that kind of rest?

It changes how I show up.

As a mom.

As a wife.

As a friend.

As a daughter of God.

Maybe you’ve been walking through a fog like I have.

Maybe you’ve been overwhelmed, exhausted, craving direction but unsure where to start.

Here’s what I’m learning:

God’s direction doesn’t always come in a loud, dramatic moment.

Sometimes it comes in a whisper:

“Rest. With Me. Now.”

Not when things settle down.

Not when you finally feel strong again.

Not when the schedule clears up.

Now.

Because rest isn’t just about stopping.

It’s about turning.

It’s about refocusing.

It’s about releasing what we were never meant to carry and receiving what only He can give.

So today, I’m starting again.

Not with hustle.

Not with striving.

But with rest.

And if you’re in that same fog—I hope this meets you gently.

You’re not alone.

He sees you.

And He’s whispering, “Come to Me.”

Jesus,

Thank You for meeting us in the fog.

For seeing us when we feel scattered and stuck.

For whispering “rest” when the world is shouting “do more.”

I pray for the woman reading this right now. The mom who's tired.

The heart that feels overwhelmed.

The one who wants to lay it all down but doesn’t know how.

Would You draw near to her today?

Give her five quiet minutes to breathe in Your peace.

Show her that she doesn’t have to carry it all.

Remind her that You already are.

Help her to surrender—not perfectly, but honestly.

To turn her attention toward You in the little moments.

To create space for You, even if the dishes are piled high and the kids are climbing all over her.

Lord, teach her what true rest looks like.

Not escape. Not silence. But holy, soul-deep surrender.

Refocus her heart. Renew her strength. Restore her joy.

Thank You for being a gentle Savior.

Thank You for always welcoming us back.

In Jesus’ name,

Amen.