Letting my soul catch up to my body

We were driving home after an evening at the ball field. My youngest nephew had been working hard on his swing all season and finally connected with a solid hit. We decided to celebrate his boost in confidence with a stop at the local ice cream shop. I mean, we kind of used it as an excuse to indulge, but nobody was mad about it.

As we headed north toward home, the cotton candy sky was lingering in the west. The darkness seemed almost reluctant to arrive. Blues and pinks striped the horizon above farmland stretching as far as the eye could see. I watched the sky in awe, admiring God’s handiwork.

Out of curiosity, I turned to the clock to see what time it was, ever-so excited about the extended days.

Here was a masterpiece unfolding in the sky and my first instinct after noticing the time was to calculate how much sleep I would get. My thumb had already unlocked my phone before I realized what was happening. Jaw clenched, I scrolled through my calendar and remembered I hadn’t prepared lunches for the following day. One thought led to the next, and before I knew it, tomorrow had hijacked my attention: unanswered texts, appointments, and the list of house projects waiting on the fridge.

The light was idling, but I couldn’t seem to remain with it. By the time I looked up again, only a thin ribbon of peach remained on the horizon.

This isn’t new for me. I’ve contended with the balance of deeply valuing relationship, beauty, margin, and a slower pace, while being naturally task-driven. Give me a few unclaimed minutes and I’ll instinctively fill them, just as easily as I laugh when my nephew tells me he hopes someone squeezes my toothpaste from the middle (a fun little banter we have!).

I put the moka pot on the stove and know I have just enough time to throw in a load of laundry, water the plants, and brush my hair. I’m nothing if not efficient.

Once the coffee is done, I pour it into my favorite mug, sit on the couch, open my Bible, and grab a journal. While it seems like a noble effort, what really happens is a little less admirable.

I read one chapter that I barely understand, write down a few benign thoughts, say a quick prayer, and immediately attend to the list waiting on the fridge. Though I fully intend to spend a quiet moment with God, my mind feels weighted by everything that has yet to be done.

In a body that moves like it has no time to waste, my soul never quite catches up.

I long for the day when I can linger in the gap without some violent leg spasm insisting it’s time to go. To become the kind of person who doesn’t have anywhere else to be, even when the laundry sits unfolded on the bed.

Somewhere along the way, I learned to keep things moving. To go from task to task without leaving room for so much as a breath in between. I don’t think this is because I am overly ambitious, though I do like to dream. I think the truth has something to do with what happens in an unstructured space.

A strange unknown waits inside the silence. I can hear a voice that sounds like me and someone else at the same time. Stillness has a way of surfacing questions I’ve successfully avoided all day. If I keep doing, keep working, keep going, I don’t have to participate in the emotional labor of attending to my heart.

A few months back, I sat on a bench outside a local coffee shop. I was early for my next thing, so I decided to intentionally dawdle. As I sipped my decaf, I noticed a woman walk by several times. It seemed unusual enough to pique my curiosity. I wondered what circumstance led her to wander down this strip of shops with nothing in her hands to show for it, not even yummy local coffee. Was she meeting someone that hadn’t yet arrived? Was it an acquaintance or a partner or someone she had never met? Was she waiting on a to-go order? Did she work nearby and this was her usual walking route?

I made up stories about a life that wasn’t mine, allowing my imagination to meander. Then, unexpectedly, I found myself saying a quiet prayer for this woman, hoping that her worried expression would soften before lunch.

As I let myself wonder about what had brought her to this place at this particular moment, a grip of tension released from my knotted shoulders. I could feel my heart slow down and my jaw let go.

With nowhere to be but to watch and wonder, the softening in my soul felt like foreign territory.

I eventually got up and took a leisurely walk to the car, nursing the decaf in my hand. I paused for a moment before driving off, curious how long this newfound ease might last.

The day moved on in it’s usual way. Errands needed to be run. Seeds still waiting their turn to go into the ground. Laundry heaped across the bed getting more wrinkles by the minute. Not much had changed, really. But the memory of that morning stayed with me.

I still fight everyday against the incessant need to keep moving. And while I don’t have it all figured out, I’ve learned that lingering doesn’t happen on accident. A slower life in a world that demands more and prizes accomplishment doesn’t arrive on its own. I notice this most when I reach for my phone before I’ve even registered what I’m looking at, or when a moment of beauty is immediately followed by the question of what I’m supposed to do next.

That lingering sunset asked nothing of me except my attention. It did not ask me to get more done, but to stay with the moment a little longer. To take intentional pauses that allow my soul the chance to catch up to my body. Trusting that what I need most isn’t always found in the next item on the list.

It’s a posture I am still learning to accept.

In God’s grace, the candy-colored sky will be back again tomorrow. This time, I plan to stay with it.