What Happens If I Stop?

The dull ache turned into shooting pains.

The story goes about a guy who went on a personal retreat. On the first day, he was asked to sit quietly for an hour in the woods. He journaled and prayed, even though he was uncomfortable and his back ached. The next day brought a more meaningful time of prayer and journaling, but his back was really sore. By the third day, he could barely focus on God or grip the pen because his lower back was screaming. When he got home, he set a doctor's appointment for the next day. The doctor examined him, did some X-rays, and concluded he had damage to a couple of vertebrae. When the guy asked the doctor why he never felt it before the retreat, the wise doctor said, "Maybe it was because you never slowed down long enough for your body to tell you that you were hurt. Your adrenaline masked the pain because you were always going."

True story? I believe it could be. On the days when I am very still, my body aches. On the days when I work out, walk, and move around, I don't feel much pain — until the next morning, after I rest.

Here's the principle. We were designed to rest. It allows us to repair mentally, physically, spiritually, and emotionally. Have you ever had a tough day — the kind that drains everything out of you? All of us have those days. Sitting on the couch watching SportsCenter or Happy Days reruns doesn't recharge you. You go to bed and your mind is racing, or it's just worn out. When sleep comes, it does its work. It gives you a chance to release, rebuild, and replenish.

So why don't we stop? Fear.

It's not that we fear rest — it's what rest might reveal.

We are trained that action and motion are superior to stillness and silence. We equate motion with faithfulness. Stopping feels like we are quitting or failing. Even worse, if we stop going or doing, we disappear from the picture. Other people don't see us because we are not performing or producing. Are you afraid of losing the role or the big project that defines your reputation and identity? Are you challenged because the version of you that you love is the version that's producing? Do you like yourself when all the noise quiets and you have only you to face? Stopping will cause you to ask a deeper question: If I am not doing or going, am I still someone?

As tough as those questions are, you need to stop. God didn't create the day of rest — the Sabbath — so you could beat yourself up. He didn't introduce the time of stillness so He could eliminate work from your schedule. He designed the pause so you could spend a day uninterrupted in His presence. When Christ came and was victorious on the cross, He fulfilled all of the law. When we accept Christ, our rest is now found in a relationship with Him. He paid the price for our sin. In taking time off from work, we get time with Him that isn't clogged up with deadlines, commitments, and meetings. We can build the parts of our lives that bring deeper meaning and health — time with Him, our loved ones, and the things that replenish us.

I learned this on my sabbatical. I had time alone with God. Special time with Kristin, and then more with our family, friends, and loved ones. I found out what refuels me quickly — time in God's Word, working out, fishing, reading, playing golf, and taking a good nap. I apply that each week. Friday is my only day off, and I try to do as many of those as I can. When I do, I am ready to go back to all of my weekly commitments.

"I'll sleep when I'm dead." It sounds good, but it's crummy advice. Elite athletes will tell you they value their rest as much as their workouts. The best in the world don't treat recovery as optional — they treat it as part of the training. Nobody questions their commitment when they take a rest day. Nobody says they're losing their edge. They know something we forget: you don't get stronger during the rep. You get stronger during the recovery.

So what happens if you stop?

The project doesn't collapse. The people you lead find their footing. The version of you that only exists while you're producing gets quiet — and underneath it, you find the version God actually built. Not the one performing for approval. The one at rest in who He says you are.

Your body will tell you the truth eventually, one way or another. The only question is whether you'll listen to it on your own terms, in the stillness — or wait until it's screaming loud enough that you have no choice.

What is it going to take for you to finally stop?