Little Wren Writes

I am not naturally good at quiet.

I like the idea of quiet. Quiet mornings. Quiet retreats. Quiet time with God. Very wholesome. Very peaceful.

In reality, approximately forty-five seconds into silence my brain usually says: “Excellent. Now that I have your attention, here are seventeen things we haven’t adequately worried about.”

So I put some music on. Or the television. Or I message someone. Or find something to do. Or I talk…a lot…to anyone that will listen. Anything to fill the space. Apparently I enjoy quiet most when there is some noise happening in it.

As I’ve had to spend some time in a quiet space recently, I’ve been thinking lately about how little quiet there is in my life. Not just literal silence.

Internal quiet.

The kind where nobody needs anything from me. Nothing needs solving. I’m not planning the next thing. Replaying the last thing. Checking something. Organising something. Producing something. Helping someone. Trying to improve myself.

Just…being.

I find that much harder than I’d like to admit. Because somewhere along the way, I learned to associate movement with usefulness. And usefulness with worth.

Keep moving. Keep helping. Keep saying yes. Keep being available. Keep producing. Keep going.

There is always something else that could be done. That’s the problem. There will always be something else that could be done.

The inbox regenerates. The washing returns. Someone else needs something. Another good opportunity appears. Another worthwhile cause asks for attention. Another person could be helped.

If my permission to stop depends on everything being finished…I will never stop.

Which brings me to quitting. I don’t particularly like that word. Quitting sounds like failure. And I have made significant decisions in my life where I’ve just…given up and quit – a job, an important task, a direction or decision.

Quitter.
Nobody puts that on a motivational poster. We celebrate perseverance. Endurance. Commitment. Finishing what you started.

And rightly so.

Some things are worth pushing through. Some commitments deserve faithfulness when they become difficult. Sometimes the answer really is: keep going.

But not always. Sometimes wisdom says: stop.

That’s much harder for me now. Because stopping makes me wonder whether I’ve failed. Could I have tried harder? Should I have lasted longer? Am I disappointing someone? What will people think?

And, most dangerously:

If I stop doing this, who am I?

Sometimes we keep carrying things long after God has stopped asking us to carry them simply because putting them down feels too much like failure.

I’m learning there are things worth quitting.
I want to quit believing that rest has to be earned.
I want to quit treating exhaustion like evidence that I’ve worked hard enough.
I want to quit saying yes before I’ve checked whether I actually have the capacity.
I want to quit apologising for having limits.
I want to quit trying to manage other people’s opinions of me.
I want to quit believing that every problem I notice automatically becomes mine to solve.

That one is particularly inconvenient. Because I notice a lot of problems. And my brain has historically operated on a very simple system:

Problem detected → Renee assigned.

Apparently there are other options. Who knew?

But as I reflect more on this, I realise that quitting creates space. And space creates quiet. And quiet can be uncomfortable. Because when the noise dies down, things surface.

Tiredness.
Sadness.
Loneliness.
Anger.
Questions.
Longings.

Sometimes busyness is genuinely necessary. Sometimes it’s also incredibly useful camouflage. If I keep moving, I don’t have to notice how tired I am. If I keep helping everyone else, I don’t have to ask what I need. If I keep filling every evening, I don’t have to discover how I feel when I’m alone. If I keep producing, I don’t have to ask whether I believe I’m valuable when I’m doing absolutely nothing impressive.

Quiet, for me, has a rude habit of telling the truth. But also creating a space for lies to creep in and spiral. I imagine it a little bit like having to be one of those big processing machines that takes each product and see if it’s good or if it’s faulty. Every single thing that enters the quiet has to be looked at – are you a truth? Or a lie? And sometimes that can be pretty exhausting.

I’m learning that I quite like the story of Elijah as I’ve mentioned him at least once before (maybe even last letter). Another story about Elijah that I keep returning to – he has just had an enormous, dramatic victory on Mount Carmel.

Fire from heaven. Prophets defeated. Very impressive ministry day. Then everything falls apart. He runs. He collapses. He is exhausted and frightened. Eventually he ends up in a cave. And God tells him to stand on the mountain. A powerful wind comes. But God isn’t in the wind. Then an earthquake. God isn’t in the earthquake. Then fire. God isn’t in the fire. And after the fire comes what different translations call a gentle whisper, a still small voice, or the sound of sheer silence.

I love that. God had certainly used fire before. Elijah had literally just seen that. But this time, God met him differently. Quietly.

Not every encounter with God needs to be dramatic. Not every season needs to be productive. Not every spiritual experience needs to give me something profound to write in a journal afterwards. Sometimes God meets us in quiet. And sometimes quiet feels like nothing is happening because we’ve become accustomed to measuring our lives by noise.

Jesus seemed remarkably comfortable with withdrawing too. The Gospels repeatedly tell us that He went away to lonely places to pray. People were looking for Him. There were sick people He could have healed. Sermons He could have preached. Needs everywhere. And Jesus still withdrew.

That challenges me. Because if anyone could legitimately say, “Everyone needs me,” it was Jesus. They actually did. And He still walked away sometimes. Not forever. Not because He didn’t care. Because being constantly available was not the same thing as being faithful.

I need that reminder. Being needed does not automatically mean I am meant to say yes. Even Jesus disappointed people’s immediate expectations. He didn’t heal every sick person in Israel. He didn’t answer every demand. He didn’t stay in every town. He knew what His Father had given Him to do. And He also knew what He had not been given to do.

I want to learn that kind of freedom.

There is a phrase in Psalm 46 that I’ve known for years (and actually resented for a time because my mother used it far too often):

“Be still, and know that I am God.”

I used to hear that mainly as an invitation to peaceful devotional time. Candle. Bible. Cup of tea. Possibly a scenic window. Lovely.

But the context is anything but peaceful. Nations are raging. Kingdoms are falling. The earth is giving way. Mountains are falling into the sea. And right in the middle of all that chaos:

Be still.

Not because nothing is happening. Because God is God.

God is God. I am not.

God is God. I am not.

The world does not depend on my ability to hold it together. Neither does the church. Neither do the people I love. Yes, I have responsibilities. Yes, I have people to care for. Yes, I have work God has given me to do. But I am not anybody’s saviour. That position has already been filled.

Quite competently, actually.

So perhaps I need to start experimenting with quitting. Not dramatically! I’m not moving into a cabin in the wilderness and throwing my phone into a lake. (Although occasionally the phone-in-the-lake part has appeal.) Just small acts of putting things down. Leaving something unfinished until tomorrow. Saying no. Letting someone else help. Not replying immediately. Choosing rest before I have reached complete exhaustion. Allowing an empty space in the calendar to remain empty. Sitting in silence for slightly longer than is comfortable.

Asking: God, what is actually mine to carry today?
And maybe more importantly: What isn’t?

I need to keep remembering that putting something down doesn’t always mean I’ve failed. Sometimes it means I’ve finally accepted that I’m human. Finite. Limited. Loved.

And not in charge of everything.

Now of course, when I say I also need to practice quiet, I hate to disappoint some of my introvert friends but this doesn’t mean I’m going to stop being me. I’m still going to remain my noisy, loud and over-the-top self. Because there’s nothing wrong with that (perhaps I need to keep working on the appropriate times to rein it in though). What I need to practice is internal quiet. That still doesn’t come naturally to me. My brain remains committed to providing commentary. Meditation is next to impossible. Sometimes I sit down to pray and remember I need toothpaste. I assume this is a widespread spiritual discipline.

But in practicing quiet I need to learn to not be afraid of the silence. Because when I stop doing, I don’t disappear. When I stop helping, I am still loved. When I stop producing, God does not become disappointed. When I quit carrying something that was never mine, the world keeps turning. And in the space left behind, I’m hoping I will start hearing something quieter than all the demands:

Not “Do more or try harder.”
Not “Everyone needs you.”

Just

Be still. I am God.

And for once, I don’t have to be.

“Be still, and know that I am God.” 
Psalm 46:10