The Snowman on the Swing and Other Lessons in Rest.

How do you relax?

Rest as Surrender

Lucy’s pink blanket slipped from her shoulder as the bunny drooped in her hand. She did not plan this nap; she drifted into it. This is the kind of rest that comes when we stop fighting, when the body and soul finally release what they have been holding. It is not a reward for finishing the list. It is not an appointment we keep. It is simply received. And maybe that is the truest rest of all—the kind God has been inviting us into all along.

Rest as Absorption

Lucy perches at the edge, water wings puffed and ready, as if she might slip into the lake at any moment. Yet she stays, stacking shells and stones, shaping a small world no one else will ever see. Henry digs beside her, shovel biting into sand, equally intent. Industrious, absorbed, both turned away from obligation. Rest here is not idleness, but the freedom to give yourself wholly to what is in front of you.

Rest as Rhythm

Paddle, breathe. Paddle, breathe. The water takes your weight and hands it back as lift. No hurry. No finish line. Just the clean grammar of stroke and glide, a sentence the body remembers when the mind forgets.

I do not kayak. My wife does. She was once a lifeguard, a competitive swimmer, at home in the deep. Henry goes with her. I stay behind on the shore, content with the view—the shimmer of water, the sweep of sky, the rhythm of their strokes in the distance. I bring coloring pages and markers for those who linger, for children who need another doorway into rest. Not everyone craves the water. Some rest comes through paddles, some through pens, some by simply sitting still and watching the light move across the bay.

Rest as Place

This bay in Seattle holds more than water. It holds space. It tells the body it can open its shoulders, it tells the mind it can drop its guard. Frederick Law Olmsted once built Central Park on the same hunch—that people need big nature stitched into their cities so they might breathe again. Storms can terrify, but a wide, steady blue can quiet the soul. Place matters. Sometimes rest comes simply because the world around us is at rest.

Rest as Making

Three children lean over paper, markers bleeding color into white. No grades. No rubrics. No deadlines. Only the slow satisfaction of filling a space, of watching green and blue spread under the hand. This is work without weight, creation without critique. The world does not need another colored page, but the soul does. Rest does not always come by stopping. Sometimes it comes by making—quiet, small, unmeasured.

Rest as Humor

A snowman on a swing, twig arms raised like he is on holiday. Ridiculous. Unnecessary. Delightful. The world is heavy enough without us insisting on more weight. Sometimes the holiest thing we can do is laugh, build something silly, let joy perch on a swing in the cold. Rest is not always solemn. Sometimes it grins.

Rest as Gathering

The fire crackles. Sticks turn slow. Marshmallows blister and brown, sugar stretching and dripping into the flames. Nothing efficient here, nothing quick. Only people leaning close, laughter rising with the sparks, silence settling in the spaces between. This is rest we cannot find alone—the kind that comes when time loosens its grip and we remember we belong to one another.

Rest as Receiving

Lucy sits with marshmallow in hand, flip-flops dangling, the woods around her holding quiet. She is not making or striving or proving. She is only tasting what was given—smoke on her fingers, sugar on her tongue, a silence she did not earn. This is the rest that waits at the end of all the others. Not earned. Not chased. Only received.

Conclusion

We relax in many ways—on swings and in sand, in sleep and in color, in firelight and on open water. Each doorway looks different, but beyond them all waits the same invitation: the rest of God. Not leisure only. Not escape only. Not achievement only. But the deep exhale that reminds us we are held.

So, how do you relax? And when did rest last surprise you?

Tags: rest, relaxation, sabbath, play, mindfulness, family life, spiritual practices, everyday sacred, formation, forming 2.0