I crawled into bed and hid myself under the covers, aching for rest. A glance at the clock told me I should be doing anything but sleeping:

3:19 pm. Ugh. 

Mid-afternoon on a Saturday. My neighbors mowed lawns, weeded gardens, cheered at baseball and soccer games. Me? I wanted to disappear. Sleep. Dream of a life other than the hard one I had.

The week before had taken all my strength. A double workload. Endless homework for the youngest children. Too many emails and phone calls from the school. Piles of laundry, dishes, and the never-ending challenge of buying and preparing food. Allergies, a stomach bug, a couple sleepless nights. Not to mention the tantrums, complaints, and bad attitudes — theirs and mine.

And to cap it all off, the babysitter that was supposed to bring the grown-ups a little relief decided to quit without notice.

Over email.

So, yes. I was in bed on a Saturday. And in spite of the 70-something degrees outside, I holed up underneath the covers and squeezed shut my tired eyes.

Jesus, help.

I waited for the sky to split and help to come. Nothing happened.

I couldn’t help but think this wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. Life seldom is, I know. But still, a part of me had hoped my dream of family, work, and faith would get easier somehow, filled with more easy than hard. But after forty-something years, my hope had dwindled.

Most days felt heavy. And on that Saturday afternoon, the weight of real life pressed down.

Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.

It wasn’t an audible voice I heard. In fact, I hadn’t “heard” anything — at least not out loud. But somewhere in my memory the promise trickled in through my tears.

. . . And I will give you rest.

I sunk deep into the words, words that comforted as much as the down blanket covering me. I longed for rest, peace, a quiet place uninterrupted by the reality of everyday life. The remainder of Jesus’ words came to me then:

Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.
Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me,
for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.
For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.
Matthew 11:28-30 (ESV)

That’s when I noticed the three directives that accompany God’s promise of rest:

Come.

Come, He says. This is His invitation. Rather than force our obedience, He opens His arms, creates a haven in His embrace, and then simply invites us in. To come near, lean in, and draw closer than close.

Take.

Take My yoke, He says. All the other attachments of this life are too heavy, too wounding, too oppressive. Instead, He invites you and me to attach ourselves to Him first and foremost, to bond to His life and heart, to live yoked to Him like two oxen who know the only way to plow a hard field is to do it together.

Learn.

Learn from Me, He says. Watch Me. Take notes. See how I lived and rested and served and loved. Notice how I leaned into the Father, how I trusted His presence and purpose even when it didn’t make sense, even when the day was heavy and hard.

Do you ever have days when you want to disappear under the covers? Does life ever feel far more difficult than you have strength to endure? Jesus understood. He knew it would be difficult, even unbearable at times. That’s why He promised Himself as the One to give you rest. It may not change the day’s tasks, but it will ensure you never have to tackle them alone.

Come, take, learn. He is with you in the moments when life is more beautiful — and harder — than you imagined.

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