🫶 Sitting With the Weary 🫶

🌿 The Weary 🌿

🕯 🌿 🫧 🪶 ✟

There is a tiredness that is not earned by labor.

It is earned by vigilance.

By learning how to breathe without being heard.

By learning which floorboards complain and which doors stay quiet.

I learned this tired young.

I learned it in rooms where my shoulders stayed lifted even while sitting.

I learned it in houses where silence was not rest — it was listening. 🌬

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted.” — Psalm 34:18 📖

🪜 🕊 ☀️ 🫧 🌿

This tiredness lives in the thin places —

under the sternum,

behind the tongue,

in the hollow where a prayer waits to see if it will be safe to exist.

I feel it most when the lights are low.

When the fan hums but does not quite cool the room.

When my jaw locks without asking my permission. 🪶

“In returning and rest you shall be saved; in quietness and trust shall be your strength.” — Isaiah 30:15 🕯

🌟 🪞 🫧 ✞ 🫀

What does a soul become when it has learned to stand guard over its own tenderness?

Where does faith go when stillness feels louder than storms?

I have sat on the floor because the couch expected too much of me.

I have held water in my hands and called it prayer. 🌬

“Be still, and know that I am God.” — Psalm 46:10 📖

🕊 🪴 🫧 🌿 🕯

Some people grow up bilingual —

speaking both language and atmosphere.

They learn moods before maps.

They learn exits before introductions.

I became fluent in rooms before I became fluent in hope.

My nervous system learned the weather before my heart learned mercy. 🪢

“A bruised reed He will not break.” — Isaiah 42:3 🌿

🪞 🫧 🪶 ✟ 🫀

Is it possible that vigilance is not damage —

but apprenticeship?

My body still flinches at calm.

My breath still checks the room before it trusts it. 🌬

“He knows how we are formed; He remembers that we are dust.” — Psalm 103:14 🕯

🌿 🫧 🕊 🪜 📿

Faith changed dialect inside my body.

It stopped asking for fireworks.

It started asking for shelter.

I learned to call breathing worship.

I learned to call staying devotion. 🌬

“Not by might nor by power, but by My Spirit.” — Zechariah 4:6 ✨

🪴 🫧 🕯 🧎 🌿

There were seasons when prayer was not kneeling.

It was refilling the glass.

It was sitting on cold tile because the couch asked for too much of me.

God did not correct this.

He met me there.

He stayed. 🫧

“In peace I will lie down and sleep, for You alone, Lord, make me dwell in safety.” — Psalm 4:8 🕊

🪞 🫧 🌿 🕯 ✟

Could remaining be a sacrament?

Could survival be praise?

I am still learning how to sit without apology.

Still learning that my breath counts as prayer. 📖

“Let us therefore make every effort to enter that rest.” — Hebrews 4:11 🌿

🪴 🫧 🕯 🪶 🌿

Rest is not absence.

It is presence learning my name.

I am learning to sit long enough to be found. 🌬

“Those who wait on the Lord shall renew their strength.” — Isaiah 40:31 🌟

🫶 🫧 🌿 🕯 🪶

Some of the bravest faith happens where no one is counting.

Where nothing is being recorded.

Where a body finally stops apologizing for existing.

And something inside my ribs loosens. 🫧

“He makes me lie down in green pastures.” — Psalm 23:2 🌿

🪶 🫧 🌿 🕯 ✟

And the room stays quiet.