There was a season in my life when rest felt like failure.

I thought holiness looked like constant movement. Constant giving. Constant serving. Constant pushing through exhaustion with a smile on my face and Scripture on my lips.

Even after my body started breaking down, I still believed I just needed to “push through.”

Then came the rehab center.

Then came the nursing home.

Then came the wheelchair.

For weeks, my life moved according to someone else’s schedule. Someone pushed me to meals. Someone pushed me to therapy. Someone pushed me down long hallways under fluorescent lights while I silently wrestled with the loss of independence.

There’s a kind of grief that comes from no longer being able to move freely through the world on your own terms.

People talk about recovery like it’s one dramatic breakthrough moment, but for me, healing came slowly. Quietly. Painfully.

And one of the biggest miracles during that season wasn’t standing up.

It was transitioning from the wheelchair to a walker.

That walker felt like freedom.

Not complete freedom. Not easy freedom. But enough freedom to remind me I was still moving forward.

Every shaky step felt holy.

And strangely enough, recovery didn’t come from forcing myself harder.

It came through rest.

Real rest.

The kind where your body no longer has the option to perform productivity for approval.

Before rehab, I thought resting meant I was falling behind. But lying in that nursing home bed day after day forced me to confront something I had ignored for years:

I was exhausted long before I became physically disabled.

Chronic stress will wear your body down slowly while convincing you to keep going.

And somewhere during those long rehab days, I started paying attention to how often Jesus rested.

Not just physically, but spiritually and emotionally too.

The Holy Bible says:

“And he said unto them, Come ye yourselves apart into a desert place, and rest a while…”
— Mark 6:31

Jesus said that to His disciples after they had been constantly pouring into others.

The older I get, the more I understand that verse.

Because sometimes the most spiritual thing you can do is step away from the noise long enough to recover.

Jesus withdrew from crowds.

Jesus slept during storms.

Jesus disappeared into quiet places to pray.

He didn’t treat exhaustion like a badge of honor.

Neither should we.

One hip-hop song that comes to mind is Through the Wire by Kanye West. That song hits differently when you’ve had to rebuild your life while your body heals.

Especially the line:

“But I’m a champion, so I turned tragedy to triumph…”

Recovery changes you.

Disability changes you.

Slowing down changes you.

These days, I protect my peace differently.

I rest before I completely burn out.

I honor my body more.

I no longer believe constant productivity is proof of holiness.

Sometimes wisdom looks like taking a nap.

Sometimes faith looks like saying “no.”

Sometimes healing looks like using the walker without apologizing for it.

And honestly, the older I get, the more I understand why Jesus rested.

Because even the Savior of the world understood human limits.