I have discovered that there are two kinds of people in the world.
There are those who can climb into a hammock, gently sway in the breeze, close their eyes, and become one with creation.
And then there are the rest of us.
We lie down. We wobble. We spin sideways like an overturned turtle. We spend several frantic moments wondering whether this is how we shall be remembered: “He died exactly as he lived… trying to look dignified while failing spectacularly.”
Even after you finally get settled, there remains another problem.
You start thinking.
“Perhaps I should mow the lawn.”
“I wonder if the church email has arrived.”
“Did I remember to water the tomatoes?”
“Maybe I should reorganize the garage.”
It is astonishing how productive we become the very moment we decide to do absolutely nothing.
I suspect Stephen Leacock would have appreciated the peculiar athleticism required to relax.
The hammock, however, is quietly unimpressed.
It simply keeps swaying.
There is another reason hammocks have such a special place in my heart.
During my time serving alongside the Church in the Brazilian Amazon, hammocks were not quaint vacation accessories. They were simply part of everyday life.
My friends in Gurupá were often convinced that this Canadian priest was working far too hard in the relentless rainforest heat. More than once, someone would take me by the arm, bring me to their home, point firmly toward a hammock hanging in the shade, and insist, “Now you sleep.”
Coming from Southern Ontario, a midday nap was almost an admission of defeat. We were taught that the proper response to a long day was simply another cup of coffee.
The people of the Amazon knew better.
They understood that if you were going to live well in that climate, you had to respect both your limits and the rhythms of creation. Rest was not laziness. It was wisdom.
I still smile when I remember visiting a beautiful river beach with my dear friend, the Rev. Marcos. While I was admiring the scenery, he reached into a small bag, pulled out a hammock as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world, and within moments had it strung perfectly between two trees in a patch of cool shade. To him, this wasn’t camping equipment or vacation gear. It was simply the proper way to spend an afternoon.
And whenever we travelled the great rivers of the Amazon, the hammock became your little corner of the world. River boats weren’t filled with rows of seats. Instead, hundreds of brightly coloured hammocks stretched from beam to beam. They were your bed, your chair, your reading nook, your place for conversation, your refuge for prayer, and sometimes your only bit of personal space during journeys that lasted for days.
Perhaps that is why, even today, I cannot see a hammock without smiling.
It reminds me of a culture that taught me something I desperately needed to learn.
Sometimes resting is not an interruption of life.
Sometimes resting is life.
One of the hidden gifts of vacation is that it exposes something about us we normally manage to hide behind busy calendars and overflowing to-do lists.
Many of us are much better at working than resting.
We have become fluent in productivity but almost illiterate in stillness.
Yet Scripture tells us that Sabbath is not merely permission to rest. It is one of God’s commandments.
Not because God enjoys making rules.
Because God knows what endless striving does to the human soul.
When Elijah met God, it was not in the earthquake or the wind or the fire, but in what the old translation beautifully called “the still small voice.”
Apparently, God is perfectly capable of speaking at conversational volume.
It is we who insist on making enough noise to miss it.
I sometimes wonder whether Jesus would have been rather good at hammocks.
He certainly knew how to step away.
Again and again throughout the Gospels, Jesus slips away to lonely places to pray. Crowds are searching for him. The disciples are looking for him. There are sick people waiting.
And yet he withdraws.
Not because the work isn’t important.
Because remaining close to the Creator is even more important.
Perhaps that’s one reason Jesus never seemed hurried, even when everyone else was.
Vacation offers us a rare opportunity.
Not simply to stop working.
But to notice who we are when we are no longer accomplishing anything.
Can we sit beside a lake without reaching for our phone?
Can we watch clouds drift overhead without feeling guilty?
Can we listen to loons calling across the water without mentally composing tomorrow’s grocery list?
Can we let an afternoon remain gloriously unproductive?
These may sound like small questions.
Spiritually, they are enormous.
Because if our value depends entirely upon our usefulness, we have quietly forgotten the Gospel.
God loved us long before we became efficient.
Grace has never been awarded for crossing items off a checklist.
Perhaps that is why children understand summer so much better than adults.
A child can spend half an hour watching an ant carry a crumb across the sidewalk.
An adult calls that “wasting time.”
Jesus calls it paying attention.
Somewhere between childhood and adulthood we began believing that every minute must justify itself.
Creation has been trying to correct us ever since.
The breeze never hurries.
The trees never apologize for standing still.
The lake never feels guilty for reflecting the sky.
So if you happen to find yourself in a hammock this summer—or on an Adirondack chair, a dock, a porch swing, or simply sitting beneath the shade of a maple tree—resist the urge to accomplish something.
Allow yourself to be wonderfully, gloriously unproductive.
Let your breathing slow.
Listen for birds.
Watch the clouds.
Receive the day as gift instead of assignment.
You may discover that the soul grows best not while racing ahead…
…but while gently swaying in the breeze.
After all, even a hammock knows something that our calendars often forget.
Sometimes the holiest thing you can do is stay still long enough for grace to catch up with you.
Companion Prayer
Gracious God,
teach us the holy wisdom of rest. Quiet our restless hearts, slow our hurried minds, and help us receive each day as your gift rather than another task to complete. In the stillness, may we hear your gentle voice, discover again that we are loved simply because we are yours, and find renewed strength to walk faithfully with you. Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.