The countdown on my phone flashes “10 days”—ten days until everything shifts, not into a clean ending, but into an in-between. Ten days until my job, which has filled my weekdays for years, becomes a part-time interim as I help hand things off.
This morning, I settle into my studio—mug of coffee in hand, surrounded by journals, paintbrushes, and the gentle clutter that comes with making things new. The steady glow of lamplight spills across my desk, touching unfinished projects and blank pages meant for dreams. This is my quiet place for reflection, where I sift through the details of what’s ending and the hopes of what’s coming next.
Even in this space—set apart from the office, full of creative possibility—my mind drifts back to what still needs doing before my last day. I mentally map out the hand-offs and unfinished lists, wondering how to let go well, how to shape new rhythms, and how to live fully in this long stretch of “almost.” My planner sits open nearby—half-filled with the routine of the familiar, half blank and waiting for what God might write next.
My heart is still somewhere in the middle—grateful for the transition, but also restless and a little anxious. For so long, my life has moved in fragments—fitting holy things into lunch breaks, scribbling creative ideas in the margins of busy days, wedging prayer and ministry into whatever cracks I could find.
Maybe you know what this feels like, too—when devotion happens in the in-between spaces, when rest is something reserved for “someday.” There’s beauty in that kind of faithfulness, but there’s a deep weariness too.
Finding an Unhurried Rhythm in a Season of Transition
Now, as the countdown ticks closer, you might think I’d feel nothing but relief. But honestly? I still find myself wondering how I’ll fit it all in—even with more time. After so many years of running, rest feels unfamiliar, almost uncomfortable.
Perhaps you’re carrying that same question: If life ever slows down, will I even know how to receive it?
In this in-between, I keep thinking of Moses in Exodus 33. He was facing an unknown journey, wondering how he would carry the weight of leading, longing for God’s assurance. And the Lord answers him with a promise: “My Presence will go with you, and I will give you rest.” (Exodus 33:14)
I find myself whispering that promise back to God as I move through the morning’s tasks. “Your Presence will go with me. You will give me rest.” It’s not a call to try harder or pack more in, but an invitation to trust: I don’t have to do this alone, and I don’t have to earn rest.
Maybe that’s the invitation for you, too.
We don’t have to fill every moment or prove we’re “using our time well.” God’s presence is the promise, and His rest is the gift.
Practicing the Unhurried Life—One Small Change at a Time
So, I’m practicing a new rhythm, even before my schedule fully changes—letting God start to retrain my heart as the season begins to shift.
Maybe you’re longing for a new rhythm, too, or just beginning to imagine what an unhurried season could look like.
I’ve started naming the transition out loud, not just as a date on the calendar but as a gentle invitation to my soul:
I don’t live in fragments anymore.
I don’t have to fit my calling into the cracks.
Time is coming—and time is a gift, not a trap.
I put these words where I can see them—in my journal, on a sticky note, whispered as a prayer when anxiety creeps in. I’m noticing the language I use, too.
When I want to say, “I squeezed it in,” I’m learning to say, “I tended to it.”
When I want to say, “I crushed it,” I try, “I showed up with presence. That was enough for today.”
These small changes soften my striving and open me to grace.
My mornings begin with a new question—not “How much can I accomplish?” but “What does faithfulness look like today—not hustle, but faithfulness?” Most days, the answer is quieter than I expect—just one or two priorities, not the whole mountain.
Even before the official transition, I’m making space for new habits: blocking white space on my calendar, setting aside a morning each week for God to interrupt, carving out an afternoon for slow journaling instead of productivity, giving myself permission to linger and pray between tasks.
I keep reminding myself—and maybe you need this reminder, too—it’s okay for this to feel awkward and unfamiliar.We don’t have to fill every moment. We don’t have to prove we’re “using our time well.”
This new season is an invitation to receive, to rest, to discover what life looks like when it’s not run by urgency.
I’m not there yet. But with just ten days to go, I’m practicing. I’m trusting that rest is not just possible, but holy. And if you’re in your own season of transition, or just longing for a gentler pace, I hope you’ll join me in practicing too—giving your soul room to breathe, even before everything is “settled.”
Cultivations
FOR THE HEART
Where do you find yourself caught between fast mode and fruitfulness? What old habits feel hardest to lay down as you prepare for a new season?
for the spirit
God, as I stand at the edge of change, my heart is both excited and anxious. Help me trust Your timing and Your pace. Teach me to receive rest as a gift, and let faithfulness—not striving—set the rhythm of my days. Root me deeply so that what I offer comes from overflow, not emptiness.
for the journey
Will you join me in choosing just one practice or phrase to anchor yourself in this season? Maybe it’s writing a gentle reminder where you’ll see it, blocking out “God gets to interrupt” time, or trading a hurried phrase for a slower one. Let’s give ourselves permission to practice rest—even before everything changes.
