Why We Struggle to Rest: When Being Still Means Surrendering Control

2 days ago

9 min read

A Bible and coffee mug rest beside a cozy blanket overlooking a peaceful mountain lake at sunset. The image features the title "Why We Struggle to Rest" and the subtitle "When Being Still Means Surrendering Control," reflecting the Christian journey of surrendering control and learning to abide in God.

I've been thinking about rest lately. Frankly doing too much of it.

Not necessarily sleep. Not taking a vacation or spending a day doing absolutely nothing. I'm talking about genuine rest. The kind where we can stop, be still, and actually experience peace.

Why is that so difficult?

We live in a world that constantly tells us to keep moving. There's always something that needs to be done, someone who needs our attention, or another problem waiting to be solved. And when we finally stop, our minds keep going.

We think about what we haven't finished. We worry about what might happen tomorrow. We mentally rearrange our schedules, revisit conversations, and try to prepare for problems that haven't even happened yet. Our bodies might be resting, but our minds are still working.

I've been wondering if the problem isn't always that we don't know how to rest. Maybe the problem is that we don't know how to let go.

When Responsibility Becomes Control

How often do we find ourselves thinking that if we don't take care of something, it simply won't get done? If we don't make the plans, who will? If we don't solve the problem, what happens? If we don't keep everything moving, won't it all fall apart?

And sometimes those concerns are legitimate. We have responsibilities. People depend on us. There are things God has entrusted to our care. But there's a difference between being responsible for something and believing that we're the only ones capable of holding it together.

I think that's where we sometimes get into trouble. We take the responsibilities God has given us and slowly begin carrying burdens He never asked us to bear. Instead of simply doing what we've been called to do, we begin feeling responsible for making sure everything turns out the way it should.

And that's an exhausting place to live.

We can make plans, prepare for difficulties, and work diligently toward our goals. But no matter how much effort we put into something, we cannot guarantee the outcome. We can't prevent every hardship, make other people choose wisely, or ensure that everything happens according to our expectations.

Yet we keep trying.

Why?

Perhaps because acknowledging our limitations means admitting something we don't particularly like to admit.

We are not in control.

And if we're being truthful, that can be frightening.

Why Surrender Feels So Uncomfortable

We talk about surrender quite a bit in Christian circles. We sing songs about it, pray about it, and encourage one another to give our burdens to God. But actually doing it? That's another matter entirely.

I think part of the problem is that we misunderstand what surrender means. We associate it with defeat, giving up, walking away, or admitting that we can't handle something. In a culture that celebrates independence and self-sufficiency, that doesn't sound particularly appealing.

But surrendering to God isn't the same as abandoning our responsibilities. It's recognizing the difference between what He's called us to do and what only He can do.

We still make decisions. We still work. We still love people, meet responsibilities, and do our best with what we've been given. But we begin to recognize that faithfulness doesn't mean having control over every outcome.

And that's where trust enters the picture.

Because it's one thing to say that we believe God is sovereign. It's another thing entirely to live as though we believe it, especially when circumstances are uncertain or things aren't happening the way we think they should.

Sometimes it's easier to keep working, planning, and worrying than it is to acknowledge that we don't know what comes next. At least when we're doing something, we feel as though we're making a difference.

But does constant activity actually give us more control, or does it simply make us feel like we have it?

When Worry Disguises Itself as Responsibility

Here's something I think we need to examine. How often do we confuse worrying about something with actually doing something about it?

We replay situations in our minds. We imagine every possible outcome. We think through what we should say, what we should do, and how we might prevent things from going wrong. Because our minds are so busy, it feels like we're accomplishing something.

But are we?

Jesus asks an interesting question in Matthew 6:27:

"Which of you by taking thought can add one cubit unto his stature?"

In other words, what is our worry actually accomplishing?

Now, that doesn't mean we shouldn't plan or prepare. Scripture certainly encourages wisdom, diligence, and responsible stewardship. But worrying isn't the same as preparing, and mentally carrying a burden around all day doesn't necessarily bring us any closer to solving it.

Sometimes we're simply exhausting ourselves over things we cannot change.

We say we've given something to God, but then we pick it right back up. We pray about a situation but continue turning it over in our minds as though the outcome still depends entirely on us.

And I wonder how often we do that without even realizing it.

Maybe we've become so accustomed to worrying that we've started mistaking it for caring. We tell ourselves that if something matters enough, we should be thinking about it, planning for it, and anticipating everything that could go wrong.

But caring about something doesn't mean we have to carry the weight of controlling it.

And perhaps learning to rest begins with recognizing that difference.

Be Still and Know

Psalm 46:10 says:

"Be still, and know that I am God."

That's a familiar verse. We put it on artwork, use it in devotionals, and quote it when life becomes overwhelming. But have we really considered what it means?

The surrounding psalm describes trouble, upheaval, and nations in turmoil. The instruction to be still isn't given in a world where everything is peaceful and predictable. It's given in the middle of uncertainty.

God isn't telling His people that everything around them has to become quiet before they can acknowledge His authority. He's reminding them who He is, regardless of what's happening around them.

And that changes how I think about rest.

Because if my ability to rest depends on everything in my life being settled, I'm probably never going to experience much of it. There will always be another concern, another responsibility, or another situation I can't control.

But God's sovereignty doesn't change with my circumstances. He doesn't become less capable because I'm uncertain, and He doesn't need me to stay awake worrying in order for Him to continue working.

Perhaps being still isn't primarily about creating a peaceful environment. Perhaps it's about recognizing that God remains sovereign even when our circumstances are anything but peaceful.

And that's something we have to learn to trust.

Even Jesus Made Room to Withdraw

One of the things that stands out to me about Jesus' earthly ministry is how often He stepped away from the crowds.

Luke 5:16 tells us:

"And he withdrew himself into the wilderness, and prayed."

Think about the needs surrounding Him. People were sick. People were hurting. People needed teaching, guidance, and healing. There was always more to do. Yet Jesus withdrew to spend time with the Father.

He wasn't neglecting His purpose. He was demonstrating the importance of communion with the Father, even in the midst of an incredibly demanding ministry.

And I think there's an important lesson there.

We sometimes behave as though being faithful means being constantly available, constantly productive, and constantly trying to meet every need around us. We can become so focused on doing good things that we forget the importance of remaining connected to the One we're doing them for.

But Jesus demonstrated something different. He knew when to engage, and He knew when to withdraw. He didn't allow the demands of the crowd to dictate every moment of His time.

So why do we sometimes allow the demands of our lives to dictate ours?

Perhaps we've become so focused on what we need to accomplish that we've forgotten the importance of the relationship that's supposed to sustain us.

And that brings us to something Jesus taught His disciples about abiding.

Abiding Means Depending

In John 15:4–5, Jesus tells His disciples to abide in Him. He describes Himself as the vine and His followers as the branches.

It's a simple picture, but I think it challenges the way many of us approach our spiritual lives.

A branch doesn't produce fruit independently. It doesn't separate itself from the vine and then work harder to compensate for the lost connection. Its life and fruitfulness come from remaining connected.

Yet how often do we try to live our Christian lives through our own strength?

We make plans. We establish goals. We work harder. We try to become more disciplined, more productive, and more capable. And those things aren't necessarily wrong. But somewhere along the way, we can start depending more on our own efforts than on the God we're supposedly serving.

We begin measuring our faithfulness by what we accomplish rather than by how closely we're walking with Him. And when we reach our limits, instead of recognizing our need for God, we feel as though we've failed.

But perhaps our limitations aren't always obstacles to spiritual growth. Perhaps sometimes they're reminders that we were never meant to be self-sufficient.

Abiding isn't learning how to accomplish everything on our own. It's learning how to remain dependent on Christ.

And dependence requires trust.

It means acknowledging that we don't have all the answers, that we can't control every outcome, and that our own strength will never be enough to sustain us indefinitely.

But it also means recognizing that we don't have to.

What Are We Really Trusting?

I think this is where the real struggle begins. Because when we stop trying to manage everything, we have to confront what we've been trusting.

Have I been trusting God, or have I been trusting my ability to keep everything under control?

Have I been relying on His wisdom, or have I been depending on my ability to figure everything out? Have I truly surrendered my circumstances, or have I simply asked God to help me accomplish the outcome I've already decided is best?

Those questions aren't particularly comfortable, and I don't think they're supposed to be.

Sometimes spiritual growth requires us to recognize attitudes and habits we've become so accustomed to that we don't even question them anymore. And sometimes what looks like diligence on the outside is actually fear on the inside.

Fear of failure, uncertainty, disappointing someone, or what might happen if we stop trying to control everything.

And I think we need to be willing to acknowledge that.

Not every struggle with rest comes from a lack of faith. Sometimes life is genuinely demanding. Sometimes our responsibilities are overwhelming, and sometimes our circumstances make it difficult to find opportunities for physical rest.

But even in those situations, we can examine where we're placing our trust.

Are we doing what we can and trusting God with what we cannot? Or are we carrying the emotional weight of outcomes that were never ours to guarantee?

There's an important difference.

Rest Is an Expression of Faith

Maybe genuine rest is more than a break from activity. Maybe it's an opportunity to practice surrender.

It's an opportunity to acknowledge that God is still God when we're not accomplishing anything, that He's still working when we can't see what He's doing, and that His plans don't depend on our ability to anticipate every problem or prevent every mistake.

Rest doesn't mean that nothing matters. It means recognizing that everything doesn't depend on us.

Jesus says in Matthew 11:28:

"Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."

Notice what He doesn't say. He doesn't tell us to solve all our problems first. He doesn't tell us to finish every responsibility or eliminate every uncertainty.

He invites us to come to Him.

And maybe that's what we've been missing. We've been trying to create rest by getting everything under control, but the rest Jesus offers begins with coming to Him, not with finally having everything figured out.

That doesn't mean our problems will suddenly disappear or that our responsibilities will become easier. But it does mean we have somewhere to bring the burdens we're carrying.

And perhaps that's the beginning of learning to rest in Him.

Learning to Let God Be God

I'm beginning to think that learning to rest is really part of learning to abide.

It's learning to recognize where our responsibilities end and God's sovereignty begins. It's learning to work faithfully without believing that the outcome depends entirely on our efforts. It's learning to be still, not because everything around us is peaceful, but because we know the One who holds it all.

And perhaps most importantly, it's learning that our dependence on God isn't a weakness we need to overcome. It's the very relationship we were created to live in.

We don't have to earn the right to rest. We don't have to prove that we've done enough, and we don't have to keep carrying burdens that God never intended us to carry alone.