HELD

I am learning that rest isn’t weakness but a kind of worship that both I and my Creator crave.

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I am writing through pain.
I haven't said this before and in all honesty, it feels terribly foreign and exposed to share.

By the time you read this I will be on a plane, heading home.
One month. The longest I've ever been away...
apart from the softest kitty cuddles, a husband's reassuring voice, the cozy bed my body longs for.

There have been 28 treatments,
lying in a sterile room high above freshly planted gardens
along pathways made to soothe the souls of ones just like me
who find themselves at odds with declining bodies while surrounded by growing things.

Lying here, enveloped in the soft whirring of life-saving machines,
I try to pray. Instead, my brain succumbs to excessive fatigue.

Startling awake, I apologize to my Creator for dropping my end of the conversation.

But then comes this quiet assurance:
that He is blessed by the sweetness of this rare stillness—
when the body and mind surrender.

We strive to be more present,
maybe even more profound,
while He simply wants us near.

That vulnerability, of dropping into slumber in the middle of a thought...
this is the kind of love I crave.

Still, I fight it.
This failure in me to "deliver."
While He wants nothing but this holy embrace.

When I pray, I almost always fall asleep.
Not from boredom or indifference.
But from something other I haven't had the courage to name.

Habitually, I’ve felt guilty about it.
As if my inability to hold a thought—to stay alert and eloquent—was a kind of disrespect.
Like heaven required my full attention.

I'd start with the best intentions: gratitude, confession, intercession.
And somewhere between "thank you" and "please,"
my eyes would close and my breathing would slow—
and I’d slip gently away, mid-sentence,
into that thin place between consciousness and dreaming.

It felt like failure.

Until someone said to me:
"Isn't it beautiful that you feel so safe, you can fall asleep in His presence?"

And something broke open in me.

As if rest itself could be consecrated.
As if my slipping away mid-prayer wasn't abandonment, but surrender.

This is the kind of surrender a child knows—
a warm lap,
a quiet whisper
drifting off, utterly unafraid.

What if prayer isn’t a performance,
but a posture?

What if prayer isn’t a holding on tightly,
but a letting go?

What if God doesn’t need my eloquence at all but the rarity of my yielding?

There is, I think, something deeply sacred in allowing rest to come.
Not chasing it. Not earning it.
Not folding laundry while listening to worship music and calling it sabbath.

But real rest.
Bone-deep.
Spirit-led.
Not an absence. But an arrival… into the arms of someone who doesn’t need you to be impressive to be loved.

What if God is honored by this openness?
What if it’s the opposite of missing out or falling away—
but falling in?

What if this letting go is not only allowed,
but longed for by God—
even required
to cultivate the intimacy we crave?

Because control—the gripping, grasping, strategizing self—is only an illusion.

My sleep becomes the refuge, where God can love me completely, and well.
Where the mind is finally quiet,
and the body no longer resists being held.

I imagine Him there,
whispering in my ear,
stroking my brow,
pouring in what I couldn’t receive when I’m trying too hard.

Between the “Dearest Heavenly Father” and "Amen"
is the hallowed lullaby that soothes without saying a word.

Maybe the holiest thing I’ll do today
is close my eyes for a little while.

NOTES:

When was the last time you let yourself fall into the arms of your Creator?

Not with polished language or precise requests. Not with pressure to say the right thing or make it all sound important and meaningful.

But just—fell. With the weight of what you carry, with the ache of being tired, with the surrender that says:

“I don’t know what to pray, but I trust You’ll hold me anyway.”

What if prayer isn't performance—but proximity?

What if the rest you crave isn’t weakness, but worship?

I will leave you with this…no matter what your disposition, you are always held.

Image: My days started with a lovely young woman named Nicole. She…and a month of matchas were good for the soul. On my last morning of treatment, my new friend gifted me with these…flowers are always a really good idea. I will never forget the kindness and beauty of Irvine, CA. [Thank you, Nicole, for making the best matchas in OC at The Blue Hummingbird Coffee]