Sit still!

My father often fell asleep on the sofa with the cat perched on his chest. As the TV droned on, Pa started snoring. Chainsaws couldn’t compete. The cat rose and fell along with Pa’s breathing. He purred contentedly, flattening his ears every time my dad exhaled. It continued until Ma woke him up and sent him to bed. “I’m just resting my eyes,” he would mumble.

My parents were hard-working people. As soon as I was school-age Ma took a job as a cook in a local restaurant. “For the extras,” she said. We all knew it was more about giving her a sense of purpose and connection to the community. My father joked that he was known in town simply as “Hilde’s husband.” 

Pa was a steel-worker who put in long and tiring days. He came home around 5:00 p.m. My brother finished cooking whatever Ma had started for us before she left for work. I set the table and helped clean up.

Something of a news junkie, Ma read the Hamilton Spectator every day, starting with the obituaries. “If I don’t see my name listed, I read the rest of the paper,” she said. Other than that, she had “no time for hobbies.” Pa relaxed by gardening – veggies, flowers, trees and shrubs. Our yard was “Alfie’s Park.” 

No wonder that DNA pool produced a busy child like me. Ma said I had ants in my pants. Pa called me the go-go girl. I constantly resisted bedtime. One night I pushed it too far. I pleaded for a few more minutes of television. Pa suddenly stood up in a huff. “You can stay up all night, then,” he said as he stomped out of the living room, “Nobody has to tell ME to go to bed!” I apologized through tears as he stormed upstairs. I turned off the TV and climbed into my bed. 

His uncharacteristic outburst made sense once I had children myself. To a bone-weary adult, that kid-free hour before bed is precious. The busyness of family life also taught me to appreciate the restful aspect of Sundays. Even so, I had to discipline myself to take a break from the routine of the rest of the week.

The rhythm of our days

I’m still prone to overfill my days, but no one has to tell me to go to bed anymore. Why do I struggle with rest and relaxation? Is it FOMO (fear of missing out)? Do I tie my self-worth or identity into productivity and accomplishment? Can I blame my parents for this? (Then how do I explain my brother’s laid-back personality?) Maybe it’s a little of all of the above.

Pa used to tell me that your body is like a small engine. It isn’t meant to run full-out all the time. If you push it too hard, it will break down sooner than it should. He was right. God built the need for rest into our system. He set it into the rhythm of days and nights, weeks and months. More than just rest, we need the refreshment that comes from spending intentional time with the Lord. 

The plaque in my dining room speaks to my anxious soul – “Be still and know that I am God.” Stop scurrying. Sit tight. And remember who’s in charge.

No time like the present.