Every January, many of us come armed with plans. We resolve to be more disciplined, more productive, more holy. We choose words to anchor our resolve.
Things like focus, thrive, simplify, grow, action, clarity, discipline, intentional, stretch and renew — all such good words. None of the productivity goals is wrong; none of the words is a bad one.
But this year, I chose a different kind of word. I chose “still.”
It comes from Exodus 14:14: “The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still.” For a woman who has spent most of her life solving problems, smoothing edges and carrying responsibility, that verse feels almost unsettling. Be still? When there is so much to do? When so many people depend on me? When my heart is restless, and my world feels fragile?
Stillness is not laziness. It is not resignation. It is not spiritual indifference. Stillness is an act of trust. It is the brave choice to stop striving long enough to let God be God.
Somewhere along the way, many of us learned that love must be earned. We perform for approval. We organize our lives to prove we are responsible. We serve to justify our place in the world. Even in our faith, we can quietly slip into a kind of spiritual productivity: more devotions, more volunteering, more knowing, more doing — hoping, perhaps, that God will be more pleased with us if we try harder.
But what if God is not asking us to perform or produce, but to receive?
This question changes everything. To receive is not passive. It is deeply active. It requires attention, humility and trust. Receiving means believing that God’s love is not a reward for effort, but a gift freely given. It means opening our hands instead of clenching them around our plans.
There is something profoundly feminine about this posture — not in a narrow or stereotyped sense, but in the deepest spiritual sense. Scripture often describes God as the giver of life and the soul as the one who receives. Mary is the perfect image of this: “Let it be done to me according to your word.” She did not manufacture redemption. She received it — and by receiving, she changed the world.
We do need lists. We do need order. But structure is meant to serve love, not replace it. When we begin from frantic effort, our work becomes anxious. When we begin from rest in God, our work becomes fruitful.
Stillness is where this shift happens. In stillness, we stop proving and start trusting. We stop performing and start listening. We allow God to speak before we decide what to do next.
And something beautiful happens when we live this way. When we receive God — really receive him — he stirs something inside us. Desire awakens. Courage grows. Action flows naturally, not from pressure but from love. We find ourselves moving, not because we are afraid to fail, but because we are loved. We move in step with God, enjoying conversation with him, taking direction from him.
This is why stillness is not the opposite of action. It is the source of right action.
Jesus himself modeled this rhythm. He withdrew to pray. He rested in the Father. And from that place of communion, he healed, taught and gave himself completely.
Perhaps this year, instead of asking, “What must I accomplish?” we could ask, “What is God asking me to receive?”
His peace. His mercy. His guidance. His very life.
To be still is to say: I trust you to fight for me. I trust you to lead me. I trust that your love is enough.
And from that trust, everything else will follow.
Foss, whose website is takeupandread.org, writes from Connecticut.
