There are few things in life more difficult than resting.

Now that may sound like an odd thing to say.

Most people imagine that resting is quite easy.

One simply sits down in a comfortable chair, perhaps with a cup of coffee in hand, and proceeds to do nothing at all.

Simple.

Except, of course, it isn’t.

For many of us, the moment we sit down, a small voice begins speaking.

“Shouldn’t you be doing something?”

The lawn, after all, requires cutting.

The garage requires organizing.

The flowerbeds require weeding.

The eavestroughs require cleaning.

And if none of those require attention, there is always the possibility of reorganizing a drawer that nobody has opened since the Mulroney administration.

Summer Saturdays seem especially vulnerable to this phenomenon.

One wakes up with grand ambitions.

By breakfast, a list has been created.

By coffee, the list has been expanded.

By second coffee, one has developed a strategic plan worthy of a military campaign.

And yet somehow, by late afternoon, very little has actually been accomplished.

At least, very little that would impress a productivity expert.

The lawn remains only partially cut.

The garage remains largely disorganized.

The flowerbeds continue their quiet rebellion.

And the drawer remains exactly as it was.

But perhaps something more important has happened.

Perhaps there was a conversation with a neighbour over the fence.

Perhaps there was a walk taken with no destination in mind.

Perhaps there was time spent sitting on a deck, listening to birds carry on their business while accomplishing nothing of obvious economic value.

Perhaps there was laughter.

Perhaps there was a nap.

Perhaps there was simply enough stillness to remember that we are human beings and not human doings.

The older I get, the more convinced I become that God is remarkably fond of unproductive moments.

The Book of Genesis tells us that God created the world in six days and rested on the seventh.

Not because God was tired.

Not because God had run out of ideas.

Not because there was nothing left to do.

There was undoubtedly plenty left to do.

There always is.

God rested because creation was good.

Sometimes rest is not the reward for finishing everything.

Sometimes rest is the recognition that everything does not need to be finished.

That can be a difficult lesson.

Most of us secretly believe that peace lies just beyond the completion of one more task.

One more email.

One more project.

One more obligation.

One more thing crossed off the list.

Yet the list has a remarkable ability to regenerate.

It is rather like dandelions.

One removes a hundred only to discover a hundred more have appeared overnight.

The gift of a summer Saturday is that it gently reminds us that the world continues turning even when we are not managing it.

The tomatoes continue growing.

The clouds continue drifting.

The birds continue singing.

The neighbour continues mowing his lawn in perfectly straight lines that make us question our own life choices.

Creation carries on quite nicely.

And occasionally God invites us simply to enjoy it.

Not improve it.

Not organize it.

Not optimize it.

Just enjoy it.

So if you happen to spend part of this summer weekend sitting in a lawn chair with a cold drink, watching the afternoon drift by, resist the temptation to feel guilty.

You may, in fact, be practising a very ancient spiritual discipline.

You may be keeping Sabbath.

And if, after a suitable period of contemplation, you happen to fall asleep in the chair—

well, that may simply be advanced-level Sabbath keeping.

Thanks be to God.

A Prayer for a Summer Saturday

Gracious God,

You who made the long days of summer,
the shade of trees,
the songs of birds,
and the gentle breeze that stirs the leaves,

we give you thanks for this day.

When we are tempted to believe
that our worth is measured by our productivity,
remind us that we are your beloved children,
not merely workers in your vineyard.

Teach us to receive the gift of rest.

When our minds race ahead
to unfinished projects,
uncut grass,
unanswered emails,
and lists that seem to grow longer overnight,
help us to remember
that the world is sustained by your hands,
not ours.

Give us grace to delight in simple things:
a cup of coffee,
a conversation with a friend,
the laughter of family,
the warmth of the sun,
and the quiet beauty of creation.

Save us from the foolish notion
that every moment must be useful.

Grant us the wisdom to pause,
the courage to be still,
and the faith to trust
that your work continues
even when ours does not.

And if, in the course of our holy resting,
we happen to fall asleep in a lawn chair,
may we receive that gift as well—
with gratitude,
without embarrassment,
and perhaps with a small blanket.

For all good gifts come from you,
through Jesus Christ our Lord,
who welcomed the weary,
blessed the Sabbath,
and invites us still to find our rest in him.

Amen.