For the Girl Inside

What would it look like to work from rest instead of resting from work?

There’s a whole new way of being human wrapped up in that question. People have written books on it, and I’ll spend the rest of my life working out what it means, but I’m beginning to practice living that kind of rest. Here. Now. Small. I’ve been learning to rest by remembering that I have a home.

And so I’ve been imagining a home for the girl inside. A home for the person that is me, but is more than the me who walks around with messy hair and quick words and tired feet. The girl inside with the feelings and fears that aren’t visible, with memories and dreams that people don’t see or know. Because sometimes when I am busy being a parent, I am wishing someone would be my mom. While I pick up the toys and straighten the couch cushions to welcome my husband home the girl inside is wishing for her own place of welcome and rest. And while I clear off the table and wash up the dishes I am hungry for a meal prepared for my soul.

What would a perfect home look like for the inside you? Mine has wide couches and windows and a bowl of fruit on the coffee table. It has a warm kitchen with bar stools where I sit with my friends while mom fixes dinner. It has a room just for me with calm colors and soft spaces. There is a father who sits quietly with me, who listens, and who speaks hope and truth into my heart.  Most importantly it is a place that I didn’t create, a place I can come to where I belong and am taken care of.

When I know I have a home I sleep better. One of my favorite places to be is in bed between my white sheets. But when I take my day to bed with me I don’t rest as well. When I worry about my children, go over my to-do list, replay a conversation, or dread tomorrow’s big job I miss out on rest. But if I imagine a mom coming to tuck me in and kiss me good-night it is somehow easier to let go of all of the things I carry. When I remember that I am not God, that I belong to God, I learn how to rest.

When I know that I have a home I am more generous and welcoming with others. Like the time I was feeling the tension of being very different from someone I love. And it felt like our differences were too big, like maybe if there were more space between us it wouldn’t hurt so badly. And then I was comforted knowing that there is room at home for both of us. We look different, we think differently, and we do different things, but there is room in our Father’s house for each of us. We belong. The house is big enough.

When I live at home I learn not to hold onto my failures as my identity. Like the time I was resting my hand on my stretching abdomen speaking love over the child growing there. And then guilt stopped my heart when I remembered that not ten minutes before I had spoken angry words to my children, the ones who no longer just wiggle quietly inside me, the ones who sometimes compete and argue and hurt each other. And the joyful moment melted away. Until I remembered that I am a child too, and I belong to the perfect Father. I am always loved even when I am wrong, even when I raise my voice. He is my father and my children’s. We all are his.  And I leaned back into the couch and whispered to the little one inside, “I belong, baby. You belong, too. We have a home, all of us together.”

*photo credits Laura Flokstra