The Yoke’s on Us
What would it be to really rest? What does that even look like? In my heart of hearts, I don’t know. I have a vague memory of rest as a child. But then again, the rose-colored, sparkling recollections of our youth tend toward the unreliable. They are shadows without edges. They fade back and forth between truth and what we wish were truth. For some of us, childhood was a wondrous time filled with ease, freedom, unstructured afternoons, imagination without limits, softly oversized beds with cool sheets, and unmolested dreams. Some of us have those memories. Not all of us.