I wasn’t trying to prove anything.

This wasn’t about impressing anyone or earning points for being a dedicated husband and father. No one in my house was standing over me, demanding I get up and do chores after my surgery.

And yet, there I was—sweeping the floor, vacuuming, running around doing what absolutely no one had asked me to do.

Why? Because deep down, I had already decided that resting was unacceptable.

I knew I was supposed to be taking it easy. I knew I needed to recover. But in my head, there was this persistent, completely unnecessary pressure to make sure I was “doing my part.”

Did my wife ask me to overdo it? No.
Were my kids complaining that I wasn’t pulling my weight? No.
Did my doctor give me a long list of things not to do that I immediately ignored? Yes.

It wasn’t that anyone expected me to keep pushing—it was that I expected it from myself. And so I did. Until, unsurprisingly, my body gave out and I ended up spending the next day in bed, completely useless to anyone.

And that’s when it hit me. I did this to myself.

This wasn’t about helping. It wasn’t about love. It wasn’t even about responsibility. It was about control. Because deep down, I wasn’t trusting that things would be okay without me.

We are taught that our worth is tied to our usefulness.

Even in Christian spaces, we hear:

And all of these are true. But what happens when you literally can’t work?

We don’t just struggle with rest because we think work is positive. We struggle because we believe not working reflects badly on us.

Even when God Himself commands rest (Exodus 20: 8-10), we resist it.

Maybe that’s why Psalm 23 doesn’t say, "He invites me to lie down.." It says, "He makes me lie down…"

God doesn’t just suggest rest—sometimes, He forces it.

The worst part about overexerting myself wasn’t the physical pain. It was the nagging guilt that followed.

Now, I was truly unable to help. I could hear my kids asking for things. I could hear my wife managing everything without me. And on top of that, I was falling behind on work.

That made it feel even worse. Not only could I not help at home—I couldn’t even be productive while lying down.

The double frustration hit hard. If I was going to be stuck in bed, at least I should be able to get work done. But I wasn’t even managing that. I felt useless.

And instead of feeling peace, I felt like I had made everything harder for everyone—including myself.

And that’s when God spoke:

"You didn’t trust Me."

I hadn’t ignored rest because I was being “selfless”. I had ignored rest because, deep down, I didn’t trust that things could function without me.

This is where Psalm 23 came back to me.

"The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures."

God made me stop.

And He showed me something I hadn’t noticed before.

Green pastures aren’t just any field. They are full of provision. They have everything a sheep needs.

But I wasn’t seeing my circumstances as green pastures. I saw them as a cage. A place I didn’t want to be.

And God said:

"You’re not failing your family by resting. You’re failing them when you refuse to trust Me."

He wasn’t punishing me with rest. He was leading me to it.

And I had spent the last few days fighting against the very thing that would restore me.

I realized something else in this process—I wasn’t just afraid of being inactive. I was afraid of being a burden.

That’s why the guilt felt so sharp. That’s why I kept thinking, I should be doing more.

But here’s the truth:

We were literally designed to bear each other’s burdens. Galatians 6:2 says, “Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.”

When I refuse to let others help me, I’m not being strong. I’m rejecting the very way God created the body of Christ to function.

Jesus Himself let others take care of Him.

If Jesus—the Son of God—could receive help without shame, why do we struggle with it?

This whole experience taught me something unexpected about compassion.

I’ve often thought of compassion as showing up, stepping in, and doing the work. If I love my family, I help. If I care, I take on responsibility.

But what if, sometimes, the most compassionate thing I can do is trust God enough to rest?

I thought helping right away was the loving thing to do. But in reality, I was making my recovery longer, my effectiveness weaker, and my presence more limited.

Real compassion is long-term. It asks, How do I love others best—not just right now, but over time?

And often the answer isn’t doing more. It’s trusting God more.

Rest isn’t a lack of compassion.

Rest is compassion in action.

When we let God restore us, we can show up fully for the people we love—when they need us most.

Until next time,
Addison