“Makes Me Tired Just Thinking About It”

There’s something unmistakable about the start of a new school year: bright new shoes, stiff jeans, shiny backpacks and lunch boxes that, for one brief moment, are free of crumbs and clutter. Notebook paper stacked high. Crayons and highlighters in every shade. Fresh haircuts and photos by the front door—destined for mom’s social media feed or tucked into a camera roll forever.

Back-to-school is a season all its own—regimented, exciting, exhausting… and almost as expensive as Christmas.

In my current season of life—what I laughingly call my “very experienced” years—those first days of school live only in memory. I remember the rhythm that followed: late nights wrestling with math problems, crafting science fair boards, reviewing spelling lists, and attending parent-teacher conferences.

One conference stands out. Our youngest son was in second grade. He was never a problem in the classroom. He was quiet, respectful, but also uninterested. Invisible, if he could manage it. His kind, patient teacher told me how much she enjoyed having him in class, despite his messy handwriting and chronic forgetfulness when it came to writing his name on his papers. She said she could always spot his assignments by the near-illegible scrawl. (She eventually gave him a rubber signature stamp and an ink pad. He was the envy of the class—and I still have it, 40 years and several moves later.) She went on to tell me about his gentle nature, especially at the water fountain after recess. While other students jostled and pushed to be first, our son always quietly went to the end of the line, letting everyone else go ahead. Later that evening, as I tucked him into bed, I shared how proud I was of his kindness. He gave me a sheepish smile and replied, “I’m not being nice. I just don’t want to go back into the classroom yet.” Classic.

That same kid spent his school years perfecting the art of avoidance—never causing trouble, but never volunteering either. So imagine my shock when he agreed to be in a church drama with the youth group. I couldn’t picture him on stage, but sure enough, on the night of the performance, there he was. I don’t remember the plot, but I’ll never forget his one line, delivered perfectly:

“It makes me tired just thinking about it.”

It became a family classic, quoted over the years in all kinds of situations. And truthfully, I’ve thought about that line often—especially in my years of ministry, listening to countless women share their lives, burdens, and battles.

Because if there’s one thing women are good at, it’s staying busy. We keep a dizzying number of plates spinning: wife, mom, daughter, friend, career, church volunteer, caregiver. But the faster we spin, the more we lose the ability to breathe. To rest. To hear God.

When women confess that their quiet time with God feels dry, rushed, or nonexistent, I don’t judge. I understand. It’s often just another item on a to-do list. And when they say, “I haven’t heard from God in a long time,” I believe them.

Because it’s hard to hear a still, small voice when the noise in our heads and calendars is so loud.

One of my favorite authors once said that when people come to her for spiritual direction, she often begins by prescribing three things: sleep, margin, and rest. Because people who are constantly exhausted are rarely joyful, peaceful, or kind. And they’re rarely listening.

God knows this. That’s why He gave us the fourth commandment: “Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy.” Not as a suggestion. As a necessity. But we’ve treated it like a throwaway command, haven’t we? Even the most devoted believers push past Sabbath, convinced they just don’t have time to stop.

Recently, I told a friend about Selah Retreats—spaces carved out specifically to help women pause and experience Sabbath. He listened, nodded thoughtfully, and sighed, “I would love a day like that. Sometimes I try… but I just don’t have time.”

And that’s one of the great tragedies of our age. Because not only is our nonstop pace hurting our minds, bodies, and relationships—it’s robbing us of something even more vital: our connection with God. Our joy. Our ability to receive. Jewish author Nan Fink once wrote of Sabbath: “Time as we know it does not exist… the worries of the week fall away. A feeling of joy appears. And the heart opens.”

That’s the heartbeat of Selah Retreats.

To give you space to stop.

To remind your heart what joy feels like.

To help you hear again.

To usher you into God’s gentle, quiet presence.

Author John Mark Comer says it best: “Once we are rested, the quiet is where we go to find God. Because in the quiet, the inner roar of our world fades, and what shimmers in its place is the peace and presence of God.”

What if you began to take that 4th commandment seriously?

What if you moved from a life defined by “Makes me tired just thinking about it” to a rhythm of rest that “Makes me feel at peace just thinking about it.”

That’s what Selah is all about.

Selah. Rest. Listen. Breathe.