Part two on too muchness

Throughout Scripture, God rarely seems offended by human limitation. God remembers that we are dust. Jesus never shamed exhausted disciples. He invited them away. Elijah did not receive a theological lecture beneath the broom tree. He received sleep, bread, water, and gentle companionship before he received direction.

Sometimes the holiest thing you can do is stop demanding clarity from a nervous system that has spent all morning trying to protect you. Over the years I have learned that overwhelm rarely responds to force. It responds to gentleness. When my thoughts begin racing past one another, I have learned to begin with my body before my mind.

I place both feet firmly on the floor. I notice the chair supporting my weight. I soften my jaw. I take one slow breath that reaches all the way into my belly instead of stopping somewhere near my shoulders.

I look out the window long enough to remember there is still a world beyond my own thoughts. A bird landing on a branch. Wind moving through leaves. Clouds refusing to hurry. Creation has a remarkable ability to remind us that God has never rushed a sunrise.

Then I return to only one thing.

One paragraph. One phone call. One prayer. One person. One act of kindness. One faithful next step. Overwhelm whispers that everything deserves your attention right now. Wisdom quietly answers that only one thing can truly receive your wholehearted presence in this moment.

The rest can wait.

I also find myself returning to a practice I learned years ago in spiritual direction. When every thought insists on being heard, I imagine placing each one gently into God’s hands.

The grief.

The fear.

The grocery list.

The child.

The church.

The unanswered email.

The news.

The unfinished reflection.

I do not throw them away.

I simply stop believing that I must carry every one of them at the same time.

Perhaps that is what prayer often becomes.

Less about solving everything. More about remembering who is large enough to hold everything.

As I look around my office now, I notice those abandoned pages differently.

They are not evidence of failure. They are evidence that I cared deeply enough to begin. Some reflections may never be finished. Others will find their time tomorrow. One or two may quietly become something entirely different months from now.

Paper can be smoothed.

Ideas return.

The Spirit has never been frightened by an unfinished draft.

Grace and peace, 

Anita Sorenson

Pastor for Spiritual Formation