Built, Not Broken Reflections · No. 5

Learning to Rest

Adapted from Built, Not Broken, Episode 5 · By Timothy Ivy

Don't mistake unfamiliar peace for danger. Sometimes peace feels strange because chaos was familiar.

The first four reflections moved from survival, to false beliefs, to surrender, to learning to receive care. So the next question becomes: What happens when a person who has always carried everything finally gives himself permission to stop carrying it all?

The short answer is that it happens bit by bit, little by little. For me, it wasn't a sudden stop.

To learn to rest, I had to go back to the beginning. I had to go back to formation. You may need to as well. So rather than explain rest first, I want to tell you what it meant for me to never fully relax.

Fifteen Steps

As a child, I remember monitoring footsteps, counting stairs, and listening for danger. I was always trying to feel safe. I grew up in a state of hypervigilance, with heightened alertness and disrupted sleep, because my environment was threatening and unpredictable.

I lived with my mother's longtime partner, a man who was a permanent father figure in our home throughout my childhood. He was unsafe. Anger, wrath, extreme punishment, and abuse were regular parts of life in our home. The smallest things would bring consequences far beyond what any child should have to endure. So I lived on alert, never knowing what version of the night I was about to face.

I remember lying in bed, trying to sleep with one eye open. As I drifted off, I would suddenly be awake again.

At night, I would hear him walking up the wooden stairs. They weren't carpeted, so every step creaked. I remember the sound of his joints cracking and popping as he climbed. There were fifteen steps, and I would count every one of them, thinking: Did I do anything wrong? Is he coming for me?

When he reached the top of the stairs, right outside my door, I would hold my breath. The bathroom was across from my room. If I heard him go into the bathroom instead, I felt a little relief. Then I would wait again, listening for him to go back down those fifteen steps.

Only when I heard him descending the stairs could my heart stop pounding. I could stop clenching the sheets tight in both fists, and my body could go back to one-eye-open mode.

This was night after night for years, because there was only one bathroom in our house, and it was upstairs.

That was what existence looked like for me. Even in bed, even in the dark, even when I was supposed to be resting, part of me stayed awake: listening, preparing, and bracing for what might happen. And for what frequently did happen.

A child should not have to study the sound of footsteps to know whether he is in danger. A child should not have to count stairs, hold his breath, clench his fists, and wonder if tonight will be the night somebody comes through that door.

A child should be able to sleep. A child should be able to rest.

But when rest has been stolen from you early, you can grow into an adult who does not know how to put the weight down, even after the danger has passed.

I Don't Stop

So when I say rest was hard for me, I'm not only talking about getting more sleep or taking a day off. I'm talking about learning that I didn't have to stay on guard all the time. I'm talking about learning to trust. That's what it was. Learning to trust God enough to let my body, my mind, and my heart believe that I could be still.

My drive to stay alert and carry everything didn't begin as a character flaw. It began as a survival response. Rest wasn't easy for me, because my experience taught me that stopping was dangerous.

I was the wolf. And a wolf that's hungry will work twice as hard as a lion to find food.

Slowing down felt lazy, and strength meant always being available and ready. My mantra became: I don't stop.

I didn't understand that the little boy listening for danger had grown into a man who still lived like danger was always around the corner.

I could be safe and still not feel safe.
I could be loved and still stay guarded.
I could be tired beyond measure and still believe stopping was not an option.

Self-protection taught me how to keep going. But it didn't teach me how to be still.

Rest Is Trust

But God began teaching me that rest isn't quitting. Rest is trust.

I didn't know it at all back then, but rest says: God, You are still God when I stop moving. You're still providing when I'm not working. You're still watching when I close my eyes.

For so long, I thought strength meant staying alert, staying available, and carrying every responsibility by myself. But Scripture gives us a different picture.

"Come to Me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." (Matthew 11:28)
Jesus invites the weary and burdened to come to Him for rest. Not because they're weak, but because they were never meant to carry every burden alone.

God built rest into His design from the beginning. He commanded His people to set apart the Sabbath, showing us that work has a place, but it can't become our master.

"It is vain for you to rise up early, to sit up late, to eat the bread of sorrows; for so He gives His beloved sleep." (Psalm 127:2)
Anxious, endless labor isn't the source of our provision. God cares for His people, even as they sleep.

Rest does not mean I have no responsibilities. It means I refuse to carry responsibilities as though God is absent. Rest means I can work faithfully, serve wholeheartedly, and then release what I cannot control into the hands of the One who can.

Rest is saying, Lord, I've done what You asked me to do today. I trust You with what remains.

Not My Own Source

Trust was really what I was struggling with. I didn't know anything about surrender. I didn't quickly believe that God had it covered, because I believed I had to have it covered. I had learned to stay alert, be prepared, work hard, figure it out, carry the weight, and keep it moving.

But God was teaching me that He is in control, that He is my help, and that I am not my own source.

If you know me, you've heard me say it all the time. How do I do all that I do? You better believe it is not by myself. My grandson finds it a bit annoying when I say that so often. But I've come to a place where I trust the Lord with all my heart. I know where my help comes from.

Trust could be a whole series by itself. Pride could be another. But for now, I want to say this: busy, responsible people can confuse exhaustion with purpose. We can begin to believe that if we're tired, we must be doing something meaningful.

But exhaustion is not evidence of obedience.

Another reason we struggle with rest is that sometimes fear appears when the noise stops. Sometimes we keep moving because slowing down might force us to feel what we've been avoiding. Maybe that's exactly why we should slow down, so we can deal with those things.

Rest can be a spiritual practice. Rest helps me with gratitude. It helps me find balance. It reminds me that I'm human, that God is God, and that the world will not fall apart because I take a breath.

There's a big difference between healthy responsibility and carrying burdens God never assigned. If you're carrying what God never assigned, you're off track. For a person wired like me, setting boundaries, saying no, sleeping, asking for help, and taking Sabbath-like space can be a real act of faith.

One Sunday After Church

Here's a recent example of what practicing that kind of rest looked like in my life. I shared part of this on another podcast, when I was talking about gratitude and the peace God was giving me. But as I prepared this episode, I realized that moment was also evidence that I was learning to rest.

Not long ago, I woke up aware that I had actually slept peacefully. I felt gratitude before I even fully opened my eyes. For some people, that may sound ordinary. But for a man whose body had spent so many years staying alert, it was a gift.

That peace made me pay attention to how difficult it can still be for me to stop. I can see a house full of needs, laundry to do, things to clean, people to care for, and feel like it all has to be handled by me, and immediately.

But one Sunday after church, I made a different decision. I told everybody in the house, "You're on your own for a little while. I'm going to lie down."

It wasn't laziness or neglect. It was me practicing trust.

I let the laundry wait. I let the cleaning wait. I let things be unfinished. I lay down, gave God the concerns I had been carrying, and chose gratitude over rehearsing my worries.

Nothing outside of me had changed when I woke up. But I had. I had given myself permission to stop.

That's what rest looks like in my life sometimes: recognizing that I can pause because God is holding all of it. My responsibilities, my loved ones, my future, and me.

Don't Be Consumed by What Happened to You

When I speak to people, I want them to see beyond all the ways life has weighed them down. We all have ways of thinking that were formed by pain, fear, disappointment, survival, and even the limited understanding of man. But God's ways are higher than our ways, and His thoughts are higher than our thoughts (Isaiah 55:9).

It's important for us to look honestly at the things that created dysfunction within us. That's what I mean about doing the work. We have to identify dysfunction, because it will hinder us if we refuse to address it.

But don't be consumed by what happened to you.

We can't become so consumed with our formation, our pain, our past, our absent father, past abuse, what somebody else did to us, rejection we experienced, betrayal that happened, mistakes we made, the shame we have attached to our own name, fear that our future will look just like our past, or even our old ways of thinking, that we forget why God created us in the first place.

We have to keep moving toward the freedom Christ died to give us, so we can focus on the greater purpose: His will. Why am I here? What did God create me to do? Why is my spirit in this body, on this earth, in this hour?

I'm determined to move forward boldly, with Christ standing up in me. I refuse to let life's vicissitudes cloud my windshield. He has given me everything I need, and I am determined to bring as many people with me as I can. I want to hear, "Well done, good and faithful servant."

I don't want to be a hindrance to myself or anyone else. I want to be a disciple who lights the way. I spent enough time unaware. I spent enough time in ignorance when I was a child. But now I'm a man, and truth is in front of me. I choose to deal with the things that weigh me down. I will not allow hurt, pain, past trouble, or present trouble to keep me from being who God created me to be in the earth.

I had to become healthy, whole, and free. Not just for myself, but so I could serve the people God placed in my life without bleeding on them from wounds I refused to confront.

I refuse to let pain, fear, dysfunction, or the lies of my past keep me bent over. I will stand up straight. I will move forward with clarity, freedom, and conviction, fully aware of who I am in Christ. And as I keep becoming all God created me to be, I will use my life to help others recognize that they, too, can rise, heal, and walk in the purpose God placed inside of them.

Maybe He's Asking You to Come Closer

Consider this. Maybe God is not asking you to do more right now. Maybe He's asking you to come closer.

Maybe the next act of obedience isn't another task, another sacrifice, another thing to fix, or another burden to carry. Maybe it's to trust. Maybe it's to be still long enough to know that you are loved before you produce anything, valued before you prove anything, and held before you figure anything out.

You don't have to earn the right to rest. You don't have to break down before you're allowed to stop. You don't have to wait until every problem is solved, every person is satisfied, and every responsibility is finished before you let your soul breathe.

God isn't just the One who sends you. He's also the One who receives you. He's not only the God who strengthens you for the assignment; He's the God who gives you rest right in the middle of it.

Before you were ever productive, before you carried anybody, before you fixed anything, before you proved that you were strong, you were created by God and known by God.

If rest feels hard for you, don't condemn yourself. Maybe you learned that stopping was dangerous. I get it. Many people have learned that their value came from what they could produce. But God isn't asking you to prove your strength by exhausting yourself. He's inviting you to trust Him.

When Rest Feels Unsafe

To all of you who can't easily rest, I want you to know that I understand. You are not alone.

I know that rest may feel unsafe before it feels peaceful. When you first begin to rest, it may not feel peaceful right away. It may feel forced or uncomfortable. Your mind may race. You may feel guilty. You may suddenly notice the fears you kept buried under busyness.

But don't run from that. Stay right there and bring it to God. The discomfort may be proof that your soul has been carrying too much for too long.

Here's a bit of advice from my experience: Don't mistake unfamiliar peace for danger. Just because rest feels foreign doesn't mean it is unsafe. Sometimes peace feels strange because chaos was familiar.

You don't have to solve your whole life today. Start naming your burdens before God. Ask Him what belongs to you, what belongs to someone else, and what belongs in His hands.

Rest isn't giving up. Rest is trust. Rest is giving God His rightful place in your heart, and releasing the need to sit in a seat that belongs only to Him.

You're not required to be your own protector, provider, savior, and source. God never asked you to carry all of that. But He has asked you to trust Him in it.

You Are Held

So tonight, take a breath. Release the weight. Remember that God is God. And let your heart learn what your spirit has known all along: you are held.

The child in me stayed awake because he believed he had to be ready for whatever came next. But the man I am becoming is learning to lie down in the care of God.

I am learning that I don't have to keep watch over my life as though I'm alone. I am held. You are held. And God is faithful to carry us into the morning.

Sit With This

Where in your life do you still sleep with one eye open? What are you listening for?
What are you carrying right now that God never assigned to you?
Name your burdens before God, one at a time. Ask Him: What belongs to me, what belongs to someone else, and what belongs in Your hands?
This week, choose one small act of rest: a nap, an unfinished chore, a no, an hour set apart. When it feels uncomfortable, stay there and pray: God, You are still God when I stop moving. I trust You with what remains.

Hear the full story: Built, Not Broken, Episode 5, "Learning to Rest," on Spotify or your favorite podcast app via Pod.link.
Previous reflection: No. 4, "Learning to Receive"
Next reflection: No. 6, "Learning to Set Boundaries"

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