The Practice of Rest

And why this Monday letter is arriving a little late

A couple of quick announcements:

1. Don’t forget I’m hosting another virtual Rule of Life intensive on Friday, March 1, 11am - 3pm EST. You can find all the information you need here. This will be the last workshop I host until the fall, so if you’ve already arrived at “resolution burnout” after the New Year, I’d love for you to join a small learning community to learn why a rule of life practice is more helpful than the fleeting fever of a New Year.

2. I’m also hosting an intimate Rule of Life dinner and conversation for writers and creatives on Wednesday, April 10th, in Grand Rapids. (We are finalizing details, but if you’re attending the Festival of Faith and Writing, this will be a great beginning before its official start on Thursday morning.) This conversation will apply Rule of Life principles and process to our vocational calling. Email me at jen@jenpollockmichel.com if you want to be on the list to learn more.

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The house is quiet, and Ryan is away today for jury duty. It’s rare to have the house to myself, to not hear him on calls at the bottom of our basement stairs. It’s been nearly four years that Ryan and I have been officemates, and I am always grateful to have him around for lunch and water cooler chats. It’s also true I am equally grateful for a day with the house to myself, especially on a day as gray as today.

You’re receiving this letter a little later than the normally scheduled 6am because I didn’t have it written before last Thursday morning, when I drove to Indianapolis with a friend for a brief 24-hour prayer retreat on my way to Chicago, where I was speaking at a weekend event.

When my friend and arrived at Fall Creek Abbey on Thursday and Nancy opened the door, I was in near-tears to cross that threshold. (I hadn’t visited since February 2020.) I couldn’t love this urban retreat center more, which I wrote about in In Good Time: the dark gray-green of the siding, the broad front porch with the swing and wide wood table, a “Seasons Greeting” sign not yet taken down. To step beyond the front door of Fall Creek Abbey is to be welcomed into a protected circle of prayerful quiet. It’s the kind of place your soul longs for in the crowded rush and noise of modern life.

The season of the church calendar we’re currently observing is ordinary time. It’s a time unmarked for fasting or feasting (though both are woven into the ordinariness of Christian life). It’s the time we live after the expectancy of Advent and the celebration of Christmas, after the renunciation of Lent and the resurrection of Easter. Most of the year is lived in ordinary time, with its invitations to keep at the daily faithfulness required of all of us in our varied roles and responsibilities. It’s the time whose invitation is not to the mountain but the long winding valley and the long and slow obedience of Christ.

That pilgrimage is long—but as I was reminded last Thursday, Christ invites us to take our rest. Come to me, all you who labor and are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light (Matt. 11:28, 29). Although it wasn’t the most convenient of time for “retreat,” given that I was headed into a speaking event, Thursday was a small space in the calendar that opened up to me—and I took it. I took it for prayer and for rest. And yes, I did take a long afternoon nap soon after arriving.

In a culture that prizes productivity, it is an act of resistance to take proper rest. To put boundaries around work. To practice a regular Sabbath. To plan for days of retreat. To take an afternoon nap. To limit evening commitments in order to put yourself to bed on time. But as was wisely suggested to me by another, maybe rest is the first practice of a rule of life. Maybe we can’t properly order our lives, under the rule of Christ, until we actively let go of the constant whirring.

I took some rest, which has meant that this letter is arriving to you late. It’s to say that I’m living my ordinary life in ordinary time, never exercising any superhuman capacities around here. I pray it’s an invitation to you as well: to come to Christ, to learn from him, and to regularly receive his rest.