There is a peculiar holiness in those ten minutes before the next thing. You know the ones I mean. The ten minutes before choir practice, when the altos are searching for their tuning forks like archaeologists unearthing relics. The ten minutes before the parish advisory meeting, when everyone is still hopeful and charitable, blissfully unaware of any agenda items involving budgets or roof leaks. The ten minutes before Sunday worship, when the church is quiet — except, of course, for the rumble of the coffee percolator and the occasional acolyte sprinting past like a startled gazelle.
It is in these rare and precious pockets of time — those ten-minute intervals that appear between the good, the chaotic, and the divinely unpredictable — that we are invited into rest. Not the grand rest of sabbaticals or spa retreats or the mythical “slow weekend” we promise ourselves every June. No, I mean the rest we can actually get: the holy pause, the sacrament of stopping, the spiritual deep breath that arrives before the next thing barrels toward us with all the subtlety of a thurible swung by an enthusiastic novice thurifer.
Scripture, of course, is full of moments where God moves in the margins. Elijah hears the still small voice not in the storm, but in the quiet after it. Jesus sneaks away before the disciples can ask Him one more clarifying question about the parables. Even the psalmist whispers, “Be still, and know…” as if knowing God requires stillness — or at least ten uninterrupted minutes of it.
The trouble is that we often treat these in-between moments as disposable. “Oh, I’ve got ten minutes! I can answer three emails, reorganize my entire life, and possibly rework the sermon illustration so it no longer involves sheep in quite such a dramatic fashion!” But rest, true rest, rarely barges in uninvited. It prefers to slip gently into the room like a kindly parishioner carrying a plate of cookies you didn’t ask for but are deeply grateful to receive.
What if — just imagine — what if the ten minutes before the next thing were not simply the warm-up act for the main event, but the very place where God is already waiting for us? What if these moments are less about preparation and more about presence?
Rest isn’t the absence of activity; it’s the presence of peace.
So I offer this modest proposal: let us reclaim the ten-minute window. Let it be a moment to sit down before someone asks why we’re standing. Let it be the deep breath before the hymn, the whispered prayer before the meeting, the smile shared with no one in particular simply because grace showed up and sat down beside you.
And in the Anglican tradition, resting for ten minutes is essentially the same as keeping a minor feast day — optional, reverent, and best accompanied by tea.
My friends, life will always give us the next thing. God gives us the ten minutes before it.
May we have the good sense to notice.
And perhaps — God helping us — the courage to rest.
Amen.
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Companion Prayer
Holy God, You meet us not only in the great moments of life, but in the quiet pauses before the next thing. Teach us to rest in You — to breathe deeply, to be still, and to welcome Your peace into the small spaces of our day. Help us receive these ten-minute graces as gifts, not accidents; as invitations, not interruptions. Refresh our spirits, steady our hearts, and prepare us gently for whatever comes next. In Jesus’ name, Amen.