Take A Break! It's Snowmageddon!

Emma defending her "snow fort" long after her brother Scooter loses interest in occupying it.

 

You know it's coming. The weather app has been refreshed approximately 47 times in the last hour. The meteorologist on TV is using words like "significant accumulation" and "travel not advised," which in snow-speak means "here it comes!" And suddenly, everyone in town has the same brilliant idea: I better go to the grocery store. Right now.

As if we're preparing to survive on French toast for the next three weeks.  The grocery store looks like a Black Friday sale. Grown adults are speed-walking toward the dairy aisle. Someone's cart has five gallons of milk. Five!  We are terrible at stopping. Absolutely terrible. Even when we know rest is coming, we resist. We try to cram 47 tasks into the final hours before the universe forces us to sit down. It's almost like we're afraid of what might happen if we actually had to be still for a moment.

Then you wake up the next morning, and the world has transformed. Everything is white and quiet—that particular kind of quiet that only comes with fresh snow. Well, at least that’s true for people who don’t have corgis.  They want to go out and play.  And then come in.  And then go out and play.  And then come in.  And then go out and play. 

And there it is: you have nowhere to go. Nothing you can do. You're stuck at home with your family, your thoughts, and maybe 24 hours of rest and relaxation ahead of you. 

There's this moment in Mark's Gospel, chapter 6, verse 31, where Jesus looks at his disciples and says something remarkable: "Come with me by yourselves to a quiet place and get some rest." 

Context matters here.

These guys had been working nonstop. They'd just returned from a ministry trip where they'd been teaching and healing and dealing with crowds. They were probably exhausted, running on adrenaline and a sense of mission. And Jesus, who had every reason to keep the momentum going, says "Stop. Come away. Rest."

He doesn’t say "rest when the work is done." The work is never done. He doesn’t say "rest when you've earned it.”  Rest isn't something we earn, it’s something we need. He simply says"come and rest." Period. 

Jesus modeled this throughout his ministry. He withdrew to quiet places. He stepped away from the crowds. He prioritized time alone with the Father, even when people were clamoring for his attention. Rest wasn't a sign of weakness or laziness for Jesus—it was a spiritual practice. A discipline. A way of acknowledging that he was human and needed to be refilled. 

And if Jesus needed rest, what makes us think we don't? 

Here's what I love about snow days: they're like God's way of sending us to our rooms. "You won't rest on your own? Fine. I'm shutting down the roads. I'm canceling your meetings. I'm giving you permission—no, I'm giving you a mandate—to stop." 

Rest isn't just about physical recovery. It's about remembering who we are. It's about reconnecting with the people we love. It's about creating space for God to speak into the noise of our lives. It's about trusting that the world can function without our constant effort.  Snow days are involuntary Sabbaths. And maybe that's exactly what we need.

Don't wait for God to send a blizzard. Don't wait until your body forces you to stop. Don't wait until burnout makes the decision for you.  Make that time in your life to rest.  Put that phone away in the evenings perhaps.  Take an actual lunch break and go outside and take a walk.  If you’re overwhelmed, learn to say no to additional commitments in your life. 

Jesus' invitation in Mark 6:31 isn't just for exhausted first-century disciples. It's for you. Right now. "Come with me by yourselves to a quiet place and get some rest."  You don't need permission. You already have it. You don't need to earn it. It's a gift. 

The next time it snows, don't panic. Don't fight it. Receive it as what it is: an invitation to remember that you're human, that rest is holy, and that sometimes the most spiritual thing you can do is absolutely nothing.  Make the coffee. Read a book—or better yet read “The Book.” Watch the snow fall. And thank God for the reminder that the world keeps spinning just fine without your constant intervention. 

~Pastor Todd Creason