The Lamp Within the Body Letter Two: Rest as Resistance

Dear friends,

If Letter One was illumination,

Letter Two is warmth.

And so I say to you this week;

There is a kind of rest that feels indulgent.

And then there is the kind that feels almost rebellious.

I am learning the difference.

After listening more closely to my body in recent months, one truth has become gently unavoidable: I cannot continue what I refuse to honour.

For years, rest felt like something to be earned.

After the children were settled.

After the work was finished.

After the dishes were done and the washing folded.

After the house was quiet.

Rest lived at the bottom of the list.

And yet my body in its wisdom had been asking for it all along.

Not laziness.

Not withdrawal.

But restoration.

There is a subtle pressure in our culture that equates productivity with worth. Even in creative spaces, even in ministry, even in motherhood. We measure days by output. We reward endurance. We praise pushing through.

But what if, for those of us living with complex health, rest is not retreat?

What if it is resistance?

Resistance against the lie that we are machines.

Resistance against the fear that slowing down makes us irrelevant.

Resistance against the inherited pattern of proving our value through exhaustion.

When I began honouring rest more intentionally ~ adjusting rhythms, protecting evenings, allowing pauses in the steps, something unexpected happened.

I did not disappear.

My creativity deepened.

My prayer softened.

My nervous system steadied.

Rest did not shrink my life.

It clarified it.

For those of us managing sleep disruption, immune strain, neurological complexity ~ rest is not a optional decoration. It is infrastructure.

And yet rest can stir guilt.

Especially for women.

Especially for mothers.

Especially for those of us raised by generations who survived by sheer perseverance.

But perseverance without pause eventually becomes depletion.

I think of Christ withdrawing often. Not because He was incapable but because He understood rhythm. Action and retreat. Giving and receiving.

Rest is not weakness.

It is obedience to design.

In my studio now, rest has become part of the architecture.

Shorter creative windows.

Intentional breaks.

Days that look quieter on paper but feel more whole in the body.

This is not giving up.

This is learning to live long.

If listening was the first act of hope, rest is the first act of trust.

Trust that the world will not collapse if I lie down.

Trust that my worth is not measured in output.

Trust that tending my body is not selfish, it is stewardship.

If you are living with complexity, perhaps rest is not what you need to apologise for.

Perhaps it is what you need to defend.

Not loudly.

Not angrily.

But steadily.

As an act of resistance against everything that tells you to override your own limits.

There is a quiet power in choosing restoration.

There is strength in closing the laptop.

There is dignity in going to bed.

And sometimes the bravest thing we can do

is lie down before we fall down.

May the lamp within us burn steady, even as we learn the language of our own bodies.