On the Days Your Body Says No, #3

My dear one,

I wanted to write to you today about the days your body says no. You know the ones I mean. You had plans, maybe small ones, maybe ones you'd been looking forward to for weeks, and then your body simply refused to cooperate. Your joints locked up, or your heart started racing the moment you stood, or the exhaustion settled so deep into your bones that even lifting your arm felt like too much to ask. And you had to cancel. Again. I know how much you hate that word, canceling, and how it can feel like proof that you're unreliable, when really it's proof that you're honest about your own limits.

I want to sit with you in that today, because I don't think it gets talked about enough. There's real grief in a canceled plan. It isn't just logistics. It's the disappointment of missing something you wanted to be part of. It's the quiet fear that people will stop inviting you if you say no too many times. It's the frustration of a body that doesn't ask your permission before it shuts things down. That grief is real, and I won't rush you past it. You're allowed to be sad about the life a flare takes from you, even for an afternoon, even for a week.

But I also want to tell you something I believe with my whole heart, something I hope settles into you a little more with each letter I write. Rest isn't failure. Canceling isn't giving up. When your body says no and you listen to it, that isn't weakness. That's wisdom. It's you caring for the only body you've got, the one that's carrying you through a life that asks more of it than most people will ever understand. EDS doesn't hold joints the way they're supposed to be held. POTS can make your own heartbeat feel like an enemy. ME/CFS can turn a simple errand into days of recovery. None of that is something you can think your way out of, or push your way through without a cost. So when you choose rest instead of pushing, you aren't quitting on your life. You're protecting it.

I know it doesn't always feel that way in the moment. It can feel like everyone else gets to keep going while you're stuck watching from the sidelines, again. I won't pretend that feeling away. But I want you to try something with me, just for today. Instead of telling yourself you're letting people down, try telling yourself you're taking care of the body God gave you, the one that has to carry you through tomorrow too, and the day after that, and all the days you don't want to miss because you spent everything you had today.

There's a verse that has been sitting with me as I wrote this letter, from the book of Matthew. Jesus says, "Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest." Matthew 11:28. I love that He didn't say come to me once you've finished everything on your list. He didn't say come to me when you've earned a break. He said come, exactly as you are, weary and burdened, and I'll give you rest. That's an invitation, not a consolation prize for people who couldn't keep up. Rest was His idea before it was ever a necessity forced on you by a body that won't cooperate.

I think about that sometimes when I picture you on a hard day, curled up under a blanket with the plans you had to cancel still sitting heavy on your mind. I picture bringing you something small, a cup of tea, a bit of toast, nothing that needs explaining or asking permission for. Just quiet company while your body does what it needs to do. I wish I could sit with you like that every time, and in a way, through these letters, I hope I am.

I also want to say this plainly, because I think you need to hear it more than once. The people worth keeping close will understand when you cancel. They'll be sad you can't make it, sure, and that's a normal, human response, but they won't hold it against you or treat it as proof you don't care. If someone makes you feel small for listening to your body, that says something about them, not about you. You don't have to earn your place in someone's life by showing up sick just to prove your loyalty.

On the days your body says no, I want you to remember there is nothing shameful about stillness. God didn't design rest as a punishment. He wove it into creation itself, resting on the seventh day not because He was tired, but because rest is good, and holy, and worth honoring. If rest was worthy of Him, it's worthy of you too, especially on the days your body leaves you no other choice.

So today, if you had to cancel something, or you're lying in bed instead of doing what you'd planned, I want you to hear me say this clearly. You didn't fail today. You listened to the body you've been given, and that is a kind of faithfulness most people never have to practice. I'm proud of you for it, even when it doesn't feel like anything to be proud of. And I believe God is close to you in this stillness, not disappointed in it.

Rest today, my dear one. Truly rest. The plans that fell through will still be there to reschedule when you're able, and if they aren't, that's alright too. What matters most right now is you, cared for, held, and not alone in the quiet.

Love, Dad

A prayer for you today.

Lord, thank You for inviting the weary and burdened to come to You, just as they are, with nothing to prove and nothing to earn first.
Thank You that rest was Your idea long before it became a necessity for her tired body.
Where she feels the sting of canceled plans, comfort the disappointment underneath.
Where she fears she is letting people down, surround her with those who understand, and soften the sting of those who don't.
Remind her that choosing rest is not surrender. It is wisdom, and it is care for the body You gave her.
Give her true rest today, in her body and in her spirit, and let her feel Your nearness in the stillness rather than Your absence.
Thank You for holding her, even now, exactly as she is.
In Your restful, faithful name, amen.