I am tired this week. No, exhausted—-the cumulative fatigue of a very busy summer, too much work before me this fall and winter, and a book that refuses to be written, with all the self-doubt that evokes. Shall we toss in covid, politics—-and just for extra measure—-a lifelong battle with insomnia?

Maybe this is you, too. Everyone I know is tired, struggling. My weary heart goes out to you all. And I want to help.

So come with me now for a few minutes to Harvester Island? I want to show you the beautiful paradox of rest—-and how we can all find it no matter where we are.

This was us last week——our Harvester Island Writers’ Workshop. We did not rest very much. We were busy every day. Here is some of what we did:

How does this happen? Yes, beauty gives us rest. A faraway island can give us rest and escape from the pressures of our lives. Is this it, then? We all have to jet away to some Edenic island far from home?

No. This isn’t enough. I know this because I live on this Alaskan island and I often lapse into restlessness and stress even here . . .

Maybe we just need to get away from people . … because let’s face it: much of our stress comes from disappointing and difficult relationships.

But that’s not very hopeful. Who can escape all people? And then if you do, you’re stuck with yourself. And don’t you know you’re often your own slave driver, your harshest critic, your least forgiving master?

Maybe we just need to retire, or cut back on work so we fall into a hammock, walk on the beach, read murder mysteries, fill our souls with quiet and solitude. Surely that will bring us rest.

But as lovely and sometimes necessary as all this is, this is not enough.

What then will rescue us from the restlessness that keeps us moving, exhausted, striving, chasing after success and security and wealth and love? We know where some of it comes from. In a consumer world that profits on our fears and insecurities, we are urged to buy more to fill our emptiness. In a culture that cultivates discontent, we are groomed to believe there’s never enough. We’re always running out.

It was like that then, too. In the midst of oppression and violence, too much religion and poverty, and people working so hard to stay alive, they were exhausted and restless, always needing more. In the clamor of all of that came one man with a simple invitation. Maybe he called out, gently. Maybe he held his arms out as he said it. Maybe he took the hand of a man bent with bricks on his back, or reached out to touch the sleeve of an exhausted woman. . .

He says, “Come . ..” But sometimes I am too weary even to drop the weight on my back. Even to reach out my hand. What then? Then I gather with those who can. In a church. In a kitchen. On an island. Anywhere.

That’s what we did last week. Together we laid down our striving, our restlessness, our not-enoughness. Jesus was there, in all his abundance. We were there, for one another, in all our abundance and in all of our weakness and our lack. We asked nothing of each other except our presence. We wanted nothing except what we were given.

We rested in the Jesus we saw in one another.

Lay it all down, friend. Go to Him, or ask someone to go with you. His burden is easy and light. Your soul will find rest, your body will sleep. In Jesus’ name, Amen.