It was such a good weekend on so many levels. We had time as a family, time as just the two of us, time with others, time to give and care for someone who was hurting. We enjoyed simple foods and rich foods. We puttered around the house and got little things done.
But there is a weird lie that seems to always come when we have calm. When the weekend is restful, I begin to self-doubt and worry that we aren't doing enough. When it's peaceful, I find myself freaking out that we have down time. I enjoy it... but I worry about it.
Where does that come from?
I talk about wanting good rhythms of work and play, effort and rest. I know that there should be time of strenuous output and times of happy celebration. But inside, I feel better about myself when it's busy and even stressful.
We are still in the process of adjusting and settling in this new place. We are learning patterns and ways of existing, surviving and thriving. I know that we want thriving to be our normal state of being. In knowing that, I am aware that rest, quiet times to putter and to dream are good, needed and desirable. In fact, I strongly resist hectic ways of living. I am, at the core, one who needs space for God's voice to break in. I don't like being so busy that He has to wait in line, hoping to get a word in edge-wise.
And I'm not just talking about the traditional "Quiet Time" here. I'm talking about just having a rhythm that allows for some slower times in which his dreams can invade my brain. I want us to keep dreaming his dreams for this place. I don't want to lock into my feeble little ideas.
So it's breathing room I long for. It was such a nice breathing room kind of weekend. Yet I find guilt chasing my quiet breaths and telling me we should be running from one thing to the next.
I resist that. I take big breaths of love and grace and friendship with God.
This Monday morning, with a full week ahead, I stretch out my arms and open my lungs. I breathe.