The Good News: God Isn't Confused by Your Rest

 

There's a moment that happens—maybe you've lived it—when you finally gather the courage to say the words out loud.

You've been wrestling with them for weeks, maybe months. You've prayed about it until your knees were sore and your journal was full. You've listened for God's voice in the early morning quiet, in the middle of sleepless nights, in the sacred space between exhaustion and surrender.

And then, finally, you heard it.

Clear.
Gentle.
Unmistakable.

"Rest."

Not as a suggestion. Not as a someday-when-things-slow-down idea. But as an invitation. A command, even. A holy disruption to the pace you've been keeping, the schedule you've been maintaining, the version of yourself you've been performing.

Because somewhere along the way, you bought into an illusion—the illusion that it was your job to hold everything and everyone together. A role God never asked you to carry.

And rest was His way of saying:

"Put it down. You were never meant to hold all of this."

So you said yes.

You made the decision. You set the boundary. You stepped back from the commitment, rearranged your calendar, protected your margin, and honored the Sabbath you'd been preaching about for years but never quite practicing.

As Lysa TerKeurst says, "The Sabbath isn't merely a time to be observed—it's a time to be preserved."

And you were finally ready to preserve it.

And for the first time in a long time, you could breathe.

But then.

The Questions That Change Everything

Then comes the conversation you didn't expect.

Maybe it's after church, in that awkward space between the final song and the shuffle toward the parking lot.

Maybe it's in a text message that starts with "Hey, just checking in…" but you can feel the weight behind the ellipsis.

Maybe it's over coffee with someone who loves you—someone whose opinion you actually care about.

And they ask:

"So… what's going on with you lately?"

You smile, trying to keep it light. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know. You just seem… different. Distant, maybe? We haven't seen you around as much."

Your heart beats faster. You knew this conversation was coming, but somehow you still weren't ready.

"I'm good," you say. "Really. I've just been resting more. Slowing down. God's been speaking to me about Sabbath, about boundaries, about—"

"Wait, are we good?" they interrupt. "Did something happen? Did I do something?"

"No, no," you reassure them. "It's not about you. It's just something God's been—"

"Are you okay, though? Like, really okay?"

You nod, feeling that familiar tightness in your chest—the one that comes when you have to defend something that shouldn't need defending.

"I promise I'm okay. I'm actually better than I've been in a long time. God just asked me to slow down, to rest more, to—"

"Are you sure?" Their voice lowers. "Are you sure it's God? Because sometimes when we're going through something, we can think we're hearing Him when really we're just… pulling away. Running from something."

And there it is.

The question beneath all the other questions:

"Are you sure this is God?"

 The Response You Didn't Get

You leave that conversation feeling heavier.

Not because you doubt what God said—you don't. His voice was too clear. Too loving. Too persistent.

But because of what wasn't said.

Somewhere beneath all the explaining and reassuring, there was a quiet longing for something simpler. Something honoring. Something holy.

You wish—oh, how you want to—the response had been:

"I'll pray for you."
"I trust God is leading you."
"I respect your decision—especially when it comes to God."

Just that.

But it didn't happen.

And that breaks your heart.

 The Weight Nobody Warns You About

Here's what nobody tells you about choosing rest in a culture—even a church culture—that glorifies busyness:

The hardest part isn't the rest.
It's navigating other people's responses to your rest.

It's realizing the same people who say "amen" to sermons about the Sabbath struggle when you actually live it.

It's discovering that self-care is applauded in theory but uncomfortable in practice.

It's the irony of spending energy explaining the very thing God gave you so you'd finally have more.

And it's the loneliness of walking a path God cleared for you while people you love stand at the edge, asking, "Are you sure you should be going that way?"

 What I'm Learning in the Gap Between Their Response and God's

The disappointment is real.
And so is the grace I'm being called to extend.

Because I'm learning this—slowly, imperfectly:

Their Questions Are About Their Journey, Not Mine

When someone hears "God told me to rest" and responds with concern or confusion, it often says more about where they are than where I am.

Maybe rest has only ever come after crisis for them.
Maybe they've never followed God into something that didn't make sense to others.
Boundaries feel like rejection because of wounds they're still carrying.

I don't know their story. I don't know what they're holding.

And honestly? That's between them and God.

My job isn't to diagnose their response.
My job is to keep following God's voice—while extending grace for wherever they are in their own journey.

That's hard. Because the questions still sting.

But I'm learning that people can only celebrate in others what they've made peace with in themselves.

And that's okay.

Their process is theirs.
Mine is mine.

 I Wanted Affirmation, But I Don't Actually Need It

This one hurts to admit, but it's true:

Part of why their questions landed so hard is that I wanted their approval.

I wanted them to say, "Yes! I'm proud of you for listening to God!"
I wanted affirmation. Celebration. Validation.

And when I got questions instead, it felt like rejection.

But here's what I'm slowly learning:
My obedience to God has never required anyone else's approval.

Not because I don't value community.
But because this is my walk with Him.

He called me.
I responded.

That relationship matters most.

Yes, the loneliness is real.
Yes, I wish others understood.

But my yes to God doesn't depend on anyone else's yes to me.

 Their Discomfort Doesn't Define My Obedience

Sometimes I wonder if my rest makes people uncomfortable because it quietly suggests there's another way to live.

It may raise questions they're not yet ready to ask.
It could challenge assumptions about what faithfulness looks like.
Maybe it stirs something they're not prepared to face.

And you know what?

That's okay.

That's between them and God.

I can't manage their discomfort.
I can't abandon what God asked of me to make it easier for them.
I can't sacrifice obedience to spare others the questions it might raise.

My rest might unsettle people.
But that doesn't make it wrong.

God invited me here.

And I trust He's big enough to work in their hearts without me having to explain, justify, or defend every step of my journey.

 An Invitation to You

I don't know precisely what following God wholeheartedly will look like for you.

But I do know this: if we want to grow closer to Him, we will have to create distance from whatever is distracting us. We will have to lay aside the things we're most prone to delight in more than Him—even when those things aren't inherently bad.

The approval.
The applause.
The comfort of being needed.
The safety of staying busy.

So let's ask God where He's inviting us to deny ourselves—not as punishment, but as preparation.

And then let's do the hard and holy work.

Because a deeper level of intimacy with Him will always be worth the cost.

And I can say this now with quiet confidence:

I'm so grateful to be back at the center—with the One who matters most.

The Good News

Here's the good news I keep coming back to:

God isn't confused by my rest.

While people wonder if I'm okay, He knows I'm finally healing.
While others question my discernment, He remembers how clearly He spoke.
While I feel misunderstood, He feels honored by my obedience.

People see me stepping back.
God sees years of faithfulness that required rest to survive.

This wasn't impulsive.
This wasn't avoidance.
This wasn't a rebellion.

It was obedience.

And even when others can't celebrate it yet—God does.

So I'm learning to live in the tension:
To extend grace without abandoning obedience.
To honor people without surrendering discernment.
To stay anchored in God's voice—even when the road feels lonely.

The disappointment is real. But so is the peace.

God called me to rest.
And I'm choosing to believe Him.

God isn't confused by my rest.

And I'm learning—slowly, imperfectly, one step at a time—not to be confused by it either.

No matter who else is.

A Question for Your Heart

Before you go, I want to ask you something—not to answer out loud, but to sit with quietly before God:

What would it look like for you to trust God's voice over the need for everyone else's understanding?

Not in a way that ignores wise counsel or dismisses community.
But in a way that anchors you so deeply in what He's saying that other people's confusion doesn't shake you.

What if the peace you're longing for isn't found in convincing everyone you heard God right...
But in resting so securely in His voice that you don't need to?

Sit with that.
Ask Him about it.
And listen.

 A Prayer for the Space Between

God, this is hard. I wanted them to understand. I hoped they'd celebrate with me. I longed for them to simply say, "I'll pray for you" instead of "Are you sure?"

But help me remember: their journey is theirs. Mine is mine. And you're walking with both of us.

Give me grace to be disappointed without becoming bitter. Help me forgive them for not responding the way I needed—not because what I needed was wrong, but because they're learning too, just like I am.

Protect my heart from resentment. Protect my obedience from other people's opinions. Protect this sacred thing You're doing in me, even when others don't understand it.

And God? Thank You that even when people question, You don't. Even when they need proof, you simply say, "Yes, child. I told you to rest. And I'm so glad you listened."

Let your voice be louder than their questions. Let Your peace be more profound than their concern. Let Your approval be enough—because it always has been.

Help me love them well while protecting what You've given me to steward. Help me hold space for their questions while staying anchored in Your answers.

This is my walk with You. And I'm choosing to keep walking it—with grace for them, trust in You, and peace in my own heart.

In Jesus' name, amen. 

P.S. Remember that your obedience—the very thing people questioned—became the bridge for someone else's breakthrough.