This week, I’m choosing to rest. (no, it’s not a test. It’s the truth) No gym. No steps to hit. Just stillness, red light warmth, deep sleep, and plenty of nourishment—carbs, calories, care. It’s not easy for me. Stillness feels like weakness sometimes, like I’m falling behind. But truthfully, this might be the bravest part of the healing journey.
I think about the baby quails outside our window—tiny, quick, vulnerable. They wander but never too far. Their father stands guard, ever-present, ever-watchful. That’s how I feel this week… like one of those tiny ones, tucked beneath the quiet of the day, watched over.
My Jesus is that Father Quail. Steady. Protective. So gentle in His presence. He sees the weariness in my legs, the ache in my bones, the effort behind each breath. And still, He says, “Be still and know that I am God.” (Psalm 46:10)
There is beauty in this quiet season. And though it’s hard—emotionally, physically—I know it’s necessary. Every deep breath, every nap, every meal that feels like too much… it’s all part of rebuilding. Of growing strong in the hidden places.
That red light penetrates deeply on my weary muscles and bones. Much needed.
So today, I will rest. Not because I’ve given up, but because I am growing. Just like those baby quails—fragile but fierce, protected, and loved.