The other day I was running and I passed a beautiful meadow full of the most spectacular purple flowers. A part of me wanted to stop. To linger. The more practical part of me urged me to keep going. I had things to do and places to be.

Lately I’ve felt a similar tug in my spirit, to come away with God to rest. And a part of me rebels at the thought.

It seems like I spend so much of my time trying to be intentional about making things happen . . . pursuing good goals like spiritual maturity, friendships, etc. At the end of the day, I am left holding many things in my hand and I could give an argument for each and every one of them.

But a part of me is tired. Tired from trying so hard to do all of the things and to do them well. I would really like to know the quiet waters and green pastures talked about in Psalm 23.

I feel like I literally need to be taught how to be still.  

Maybe I can’t be still because I feel like I’m running towards something I really need. Whatever that is. A sense of having done a good day’s work? Of having wasted no time? The forward momentum almost seems to propel me towards something I feel incomplete without. Is that even true? Would I be less complete if I didn’t pursue so much?

What did you do today? I, uh, hung out with God all day in a meadow. *The achievement orientated part of my brain involuntarily shivers*  

What will happen if I stop running? If I let the stillness slip into my bones. If I give up my to-do list and let go of all of the things I am holding so tightly to?

What if I sit here with an open heart and give God my complete focus? If I take advantage of the quiet streams He offers instead of frantically running after my own pursuits?

If I am being honest, there is fear in my heart here, Lord. Fear of stillness. Of what may be uncovered if I stop moving and actually let my heart speak instead of silencing it with busyness. I’m afraid of the loss of control if I stop pursuing things and let you gently pursue me in quiet places. It feels vulnerable to me. To stop.

But still I hear you call. You are beckoning me to quiet waters, to rest in the meadows that I have only seen when I am running by.

I hear you.

There’s the meadow again. Maybe this time I’ll stop.