You Are Allowed to Rest Here

Evening changes the tone of a street.

Lights come one.

Curtains move.

Doors close gently.

The day releases its grip.

Houses like this exist so bodies can soften.

So coats can be hung.

So tired people can set things down.

Many of us did not learn rest easily.

We learned to stay useful.

To stay alert.

To keep moving.

To hold everything together.

Shrinking often hides inside productivity.

Inside exhaustion.

Inside the belief that stopping is dangerous.

But Christ keeps building shelter for people.

Not just rooms.

Rhythms.

Places inside the sould where striving can finally loosen.

Stopping shrinking sometimes looks like letting yourself go home.

Letting your body know the workday is over.

Letting God hold what you carried too long.

There are seasons when rest feels underserved.

When slowing triggers guilt.

When stillness feels unsafe.

Jesus meets people at thresholds like this.

He does not yank them into chairs.

He sits nearby.

He waits until breathing changes.

If tonight all you can do is turn one light on inside yourself, that counts.

If you lie down instead of pushing, that is faith.

If you stop proving for a few minutes, that is obedience.

You are allowed to rest here.