A few weeks ago, during the coldest seven-day stretch this winter, my husband and I drove six hours north to an AirBnB cabin that is technically in Grand Marais, MN, but is actually nearly an hour past it, halfway down the Gunflint Trail. It’s a place where half the roads go unplowed all winter, where there isn’t any cell phone reception, and where you can pull up to one of the many lakes and see Canada on the other side.
It was the most rest I’ve experienced since pre-pandemic times. Which maybe isn’t surprising. It’s been a stressful few years for everyone, and a winter cabin just sounds rejuvenating, doesn’t it?
But it wasn’t the kind of rest where we didn’t do anything. Our first night there, air temperatures reached -31 F, with windchills dipping far below that. We drove into Grand Marais and watched steam rise from Lake Superior. Despite the cold, we managed to go snowshoeing and ice fishing. In the toasty warm cabin, I read a book a day, started knitting a cowl, wrote, restarted my languishing yoga practice, and dove deeply into contemplative prayer in a way that my ordinary life doesn’t usually allow.
None of those things are wildly different from what we normally do at home anyway. The difference was space—physical, mental, and emotional—three dimensions of peaceful space to explore and find rest.
On the last day before we left, I found myself getting antsy. Not because I was bored, but because I was desperate for a way to bring the restful feeling home with us. I wanted to bottle it up and keep it forever. I couldn’t imagine ever again going years without feeling truly rejuvenated.
I took to my journal and thought and prayed and doodled and thought some more. God modeled rest for us in the creation story. He commanded us to rest and keep holy the Sabbath. He sent Jesus, who told the weary (*raises hand*) that he would give us rest.
Rest is clearly supposed to be an important, regular part of life—not something that only happens when you manage to sneak away on vacation without kids or work. Rest is not just for people who can afford cabins or vacation rentals or airplane tickets or time off work. It’s supposed to be part of life. But how?
Every now and then I experience something sort of like claustrophobia. One minute I’m fine, the next it feels like all the life is being squeezed out of me. It’s like I’m out of time, out of patience, out of air. Out of space.
In my life, this moment typically happens in the glorified hallway that serves as both our laundry room and mud room. There’s just something about trying to herd four kids into the car in an attempt to complete a boring but necessary errand while navigating a landmine of smelly boots and wet snowpants that should all be put away but, of course, haven’t been.
We all huddle in this debris-filled room, trying to reach our own shoes and jackets and make it into the garage without letting a dog or toddler escape in the process. In an ideal scenario, this would all happen through a sort of wordless shuffle as we bumped into and swerved around each other. In reality, there’s a lot of loud fighting because “You’re standing on my shoe!” and “It was my turn to push the garage door button!”
I don’t think it’s a coincidence that I routinely feel like my inner space is gone during the exact moments of the day when I’m feeling the least amount of physical space. Our squished little laundry room is the external representation of the way my brain feels: too many voices, everyone trying to come and go, no stillness, no peace.
It’s not really the laundry room’s fault. It may remind me of my lack of rest, but it’s not the root of the problem. I know this even as I dream of an impossible renovation that would double the room’s square footage. A bigger laundry room will not give me rest.
So, as I’m learning to, I took my three dimensions—physical, emotional, and mental— and their lack of space and brought them to my Examen practice. These are the reflections I’ve been pondering on. Feel free to join me in your own contemplative prayer.
Some basics on the Examen: Find a quiet space and clear your mind. Begin in prayer, asking the Holy Spirit for guidance and clarity. As you review your day in your mind, offer gratitude for what was good, and pay special attention to areas of consolation and desolation.
These looks like rapid-fire questions when they’re all written out, but I invite you to consider them slowly, even several days apart. This isn’t a math problem you’re solving; there are no timed quizzes here.
Mental Space: Whose voices do you notice running through your mind? What are they saying? Is this helpful or unhelpful? Are these voices worth listening to? How do the voices you allow in your mind make you feel? Are there ever times of inner silence and peace? If so, when? What are some ideas you’ve been thinking about? Do you feel you have enough time to process these ideas? How might you explore them further? Do you believe that God wants you to have mental clarity and focus? Do you believe he’s given you knowledge, logic, and creativity to use in your days? Where did you feel mental rest today?
Emotional Space: Whose emotions have you carried today in addition to your own? Have you been feeling allowing yourself to feel all of your own emotions, or have you been hiding from yourself? Are you tending to things that are not your own? Are there things that are yours to tend that you’ve been neglecting? Are there boundaries that need setting, reinforcing, or revisiting? Do you notice any relationships that have led to consolation or desolation? Where did you feel emotional rest today?
Physical Space: What in your physical space (at work, home, school, etc.) makes you feel happy, excited, at home, or at peace? What in your space causes you to feel the opposite? Does your physical space allow you and others to be comfortable? Is your physical space a place you feel safe? Do you have places to store or display items that are important to you? Do you have a space where you can ask others in your household to allow you some moments of quiet and solitude? Were you able to spend time in nature today? Where did I feel physical rest today?
I’m not sharing any of my conclusions because “conclusions” sounds so final, and this is a process of learning that never really ends. Also, there’s no use in doing what someone else tells you to and hoping it fixes everything. It rarely does. My life is not your life.
Instead, I’ll leave you with this: Rest is for everyone, every day. It’s a practice, like so many other things. I think in our culture we want to equate rest with ease, but that’s not quite right. Rest won’t always be easy, but it will be good. Even in too-small laundry rooms with boots and snowpants on the floor.