I rest in God.

I know how to stop working more easily than I know how to rest.

I can sit down while the mind continues organizing tomorrow, replaying today, and checking whether everyone I love is okay.

The body is still. Nothing else is.

I remember lying awake while one of my adult children was facing a problem I could not solve. I mentally composed the advice I might offer, imagined what could go wrong, and tried to identify the one thing I could do that would make the path easier.

None of it was available to be done at two in the morning.

The problem was real, and my love was real. But vigilance had quietly become an attempt to live their life in advance.

This lesson offers a rest that is not dependent on everyone I love being okay first. I rest in God.

That can feel almost impossible when something remains unresolved. The mind argues that rest should wait until the answer comes, the decision is made, or the person finds their footing.

But if rest requires permanent certainty, I will remain tired for the rest of my life.

Resting in God does not mean withdrawing care. It means releasing the belief that my worry is what holds another person together.

At some point that night, I recognized that their life was not unfolding outside God’s care simply because I could not control it. If help was needed from me, morning would still provide the opportunity to offer it.

For those few hours, my work was to let both of us be held.

I do not have to carry tomorrow while living today. I do not have to produce enough wisdom in advance for a moment that has not asked for it yet.

Perhaps rest begins with setting down one responsibility that was never mine: another person’s entire path, the whole future, or the demand to feel prepared for every possibility.

The situation may still be waiting when I rise. But I may meet it differently after remembering that neither of us meets it alone.

I rest in God not because everything has been resolved. I rest because beneath everything unresolved, we are already held.