The Rhythm of the Free

Last weekend, I had a Sabbath. Well, a morning and an afternoon. 

I woke up to 7am sunlight streaming through the white curtains, and a cat meowing at my door. 

I didn’t hurry to get out of my bed that hadn’t been made in a week. 

I finished Station Eleven, only getting out of bed to make coffee, my hair all kinds of messy, forgetting the double digits of other books I have to read for grad school. 

I took a long shower and painted my toenails and curled my hair. 

I FaceTimed with my sweet, soldier man in Texas, and we talked about our weekends, laughed about his childhood toys, and gratefully missed each other.   

I read Scripture that encouraged and confused me. I prayed labored and joyful prayers. 

I made myself a second cup of coffee and opened my screen door to see the back porch bathing in sunlight and hear the resurrection of bees and lawn mowers and spring. 

It was the Sabbath, and I remembered that I’m free. 

A week before, this Sabbath was long over due. Way too long. 

I had freedom but I had forgotten… 

Forgotten what it means to be free.

I was harried and exhausted—sleep deprived from travel-filled weekends, early mornings for work, late nights for school. Pressured, ensnared, and oppressed by insignificant things. Enslaved to deadlines I didn't have time for. Enslaved to expectations that were not mine to meet nor mine to accept. Enslaved to myself, to time, to sin, to control, to anxiety. Enslaved to unhealthy cycles that repeat themselves. 

And my body and mind screamed for Sabbath—for Shabbat—for cessation. Ceasing. 

Not just pausing, but stopping. Not just resting, but seeking restoration.

For months, my desperation for a Sabbath had grown to a muted scream—all the feeling and strain with none of the noise. 

A muffled scream that I shoved away and ignored, like crumpled clothes that won't stay on the hanger. Exhaustion led to exhaustion. The constant pushing to finish everything by a certain date, the constant expectation of perfection: it doesn't satisfy, it doesn’t bring peace, it doesn’t bring freedom. 

Even though I knew Sabbath was the answer, but I didn't want it to be. I wanted it to be me. I wanted so badly for the answer to be my own strength. 

But instead, the Father whispered the answer in my ear again and again: remember. 

Remember the Sabbath. Remember who you are.

Remember this rhythm that the Lord established on the seventh day of Creation. Six days of work. Hard, productive, beautiful, and good work. 

And one day of nothing. One day to cease from the work and enjoy all the goodness. Beautiful and good. Rest. Remember. Be reminded. 

Remember this statute, immutably written on tablets of stone along with 9 other life-giving commandments.

“Remember (zachor) Shabbat and keep it holy.” Exodus 20:8

“Guard (shamor) Shabbat, to set it apart, as your Elohim commanded you… And you shall remember that you were slave, and that your Elohim brought you out from there by a strong hand and by an outstretched arm.” Deuteronomy 5:12-14

This is the seven part rhythm of the free, abolishing the oppressive lifestyle of slavery. In the midst of work, Shabbat says, “This day is not like the rest.” This day is holy. This day reminds you of your freedom.

I am not a slave. My life is not all work. My value is not in my production. 

So I take a day, or an afternoon, or a few hours when I can catch them, and I remember shabbat. 

Today I do what a slave can't do. 

I cease.

Because rest is one-seventh in the rhythm of the free.