We arrived uncharacteristically early to drop-off. Wind whipped across the fields that bordered the school, evidenced only by the nearby trees that seemed to dance from top to bottom. The movement made my eyes flit upward. Clouds that usually crept by unnoticed billowed and swirled like oil in water. They were not angry clouds and yet they had an energy about them. A silent power.
“Oh, boys! Look at the sky.”
Our three youngest stopped their chatter and moved to the windows. Two of them looked but quickly returned to their play, while the other observed, “Oh yeah! I couldn’t see how fast the clouds were moving until we stopped.”
Three minutes later, drop-off began, and the boys waved goodbye as they slammed the truck doors shut. But I couldn’t get my son’s words out of my head. I wondered what else we had been missing in the hurried movement of our morning.
Outside the kitchen window, winter has melted into spring, new life unfolding leaf by leaf. The grass appears to have become green and lush all at once, yet I know that if I had been standing still, nose pressed against the window, I would have noticed the gradual way the blades deepened in color as they drank from the newly softened earth.
Nature seems to have a quiet handle on life’s rhythms, unbothered by the cars coming in and out of garages or the hum of the nearby highway. Creation carries very little urgency, very little of Western culture’s hurry-up-all-at-once. The beat is steadier, as if a divine cadence has coursed through earth’s veins since the beginning.
Beneath the thrum of our everyday lives are the reverberations of a God who spoke the world into existence with a rhythm of work, delight, and rest. With one word, the Creator could have manifested all the world and its inhabitants in a single moment, but instead, he worked within the limitations of time and space. God separated the light from the darkness, water from land, earth from sky, and saw that the boundaries were good. The work was good. And with each new thing, he paused. He let the world linger like a bud before it blossomed, before unfolding the next light-bearing leaf.
Even now, I look out my back window at the fresh dew still lingering upon the grass, and I am reminded: Creation cannot be rushed.
One thing I am learning about belonging is that I am not absent from the equation. To exist within relationships with God and others, I have to pay attention to the skin I am in. I must be mindful of my capacity and limitations, because the moment I begin to reach beyond what I am, I remove myself from the rhythms of creation and become a slave to production. I begin to think that the world tilts upon my axis.
But production is far different from creation.
Creation is an act of participation, an invitation to embrace the skin we are in as part of a larger body. Creation is communal. But production is measured, calculated, and always living by the rule of “just one more,” which tells us that if we cannot keep up, we will be left behind. Alone. Forgotten. Unworthy.
Production nags, “It all depends on you.” But creation sings, “It is good.”
The art of living in our skin is learning how to tell the difference.
Perhaps it will take my whole life to figure out how to live within my limits and move my hips with the beat of creation. Maybe part of being human is learning to release our grip on all that is yet undone. But what I know right now is that I do not want to move so frantically through my days that I miss out on the one “wild and precious life” that is already unfolding at my fingertips. I want to be a part of God's ongoing invitation to create.
And right now, that invitation is to stand still.
As I finish up book-writing (the manuscript is due June 1!), I’m going to press pause on my weekly Substack posts. I love this space. I love this container for words and the ways it allows us to find ways to move closer in the weird world of the internet. But the weekly pace is not sustainable in this season. I find myself moving from a posture of creation to production, and I do not want to stretch myself beyond my capacity just to appease the gods of consumption. Striving has hollow ends.
So I’m going to be quiet(er) for a bit. I’ll pop in on occasion and will still host the live gatherings and summer book club for those who have opted into the paid features. But I’m not going to hold myself to a weekly schedule for the next month or so, giving me time and space to pour my creative energies into this book that continues to burn within me so that one day I can delight in setting it free into the world.
A life of creation does not mean we will not have stretch marks. Like rings on a tree, some years result in silvery lines across our skin. There will be seasons of drought, days wrecked by storms, and winters that never seem to yield. We will wonder whether we can last another day. But even then (maybe especially then), there is freedom within the finitude of our skin. There is good in the letting go. There is peace in paying attention to our bodies and the Spirit that inhabits the deepest center of our souls.
grace + peace,
Sarah
"Production nags, “It all depends on you.” But creation sings, “It is good.”
The art of living in our skin is learning how to tell the difference."
Thank you for these beautiful words—they spoke to me so much today. Cheers for finishing up your manuscript over the next month. You've got this!
Godspeed as you write. We’ll be here praying you on.
The Lord bless you and keep you;
the Lord make His face shine upon you and be gracious to you;
the Lord turn His face toward you and give you peace.