What January’s Sabbatical Taught Me About Rest, Stillness, and the Courage to Receive

This January, I chose to step away.

Not because I was burned out — though many are. Not because I had nothing to give — though many do. But because I felt a sacred invitation to pause… before the pouring cost me more than I realized. Sabbatical is not absence. It is presence — redirected. When I stopped moving, producing, responding, and holding space for everyone else, I finally had the courage to hold space for myself. And in that stillness, something unexpected happened: my why came back into focus. Not the polished version I say out loud. Not the one I post, preach, or teach. But the truer, quieter why — the one that lives underneath responsibility, expectation, and habit.

In that sacred pause, I had some very honest conversations with myself. And I realized that much of what I was giving my time, energy, and emotional bandwidth to was not life-giving — it was life-draining. Some of it was good. Some of it was helpful. Some of it was even holy. But not all of it was necessary. And not all of it was mine to carry. There is a grief that comes when you realize you’ve been loyal to things that have quietly been costing you your peace.

Stillness did not just slow me down — it revealed me.

It revealed where I had confused responsibility with rescue. Where I had confused availability with obedience. Where I had confused being needed with being faithful. And then, gently, God did what God so often does in stillness — He led me.

“He leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul.” (Psalm 23)

This sabbatical became an embodied experience of that verse. Not as poetry, but as practice. Still waters were not just a metaphor — they became my spiritual geography. And in those waters, my soul began to remember what it felt like to breathe without urgency, to listen without distraction, to exist without performance. For those of us who pour — professionally, pastorally, relationally — rest is often framed as a luxury. But sabbath taught me that rest is not indulgence. It is stewardship.

And then came one of the most freeing truths of all: It is okay to pour from the saucer — not the cup. The cup is for me. The saucer is for others.

For too long, I had been pouring directly from the cup — giving away what I was meant to live from. And then wondering why I felt empty, resentful, or quietly depleted even while doing meaningful work. Sabbath reminded me that what’s in the cup is sacred. Not selfish. Not wasteful. Not unfaithful.

It is necessary.

Only what overflows — the saucer — is meant to be given away. And even then, overflow is seasonal. There are times when it is abundant. And there are times when it is thin. And in those thin seasons, the cup is still for me — until there is enough to share again. This sabbatical taught me that pouring is not the same as presence — and presence is not the same as depletion. We are not called to be empty vessels. We are called to be filled ones.

It taught me that peace is not something we arrive at — it is something we lean into. Stillness does not stop the world — it simply stops the noise long enough for the soul to speak. And perhaps the most sobering truth of all: Much of what we call “faithfulness” is actually fear — fear of disappointing, fear of being unnecessary, fear of slowing down in a world that only knows how to accelerate.

Sabbath did not make me less faithful. It made me more free.

It did not weaken my calling. It clarified it. It did not distance me from others. It brought me back to myself — and therefore back to God — in ways I didn’t know I needed.

As I return, I do so differently. Not rushed. Not overextended. Not pouring from the cup.

But restored. Rooted. Led. And leaning — not into exhaustion, but into peace.