DEC 30 | The Pace Is Not the Point
"Be still, and know that I am God. I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth."
— Psalm 46:10
"In returning and rest is your salvation, in quietness and trust is your strength, but you would have none of it."
— Isaiah 30:15
A Meditation for the Space Between Years
The wrapping paper is in the trash. The carols have faded. The candles that flickered through Advent now sit cold in their holders, wax pooled at the bottom. Christmas is over.
And already…already, the world is sprinting.
The emails arrive with subject lines about "crushing your goals" and "making this your best year yet." The gym ads multiply. The calendar apps ping with their cheerful invitations to plan, optimize, and hustle. Somewhere between the last leftover ham sandwich and the countdown to midnight, the pace picks up. A new year approaches, and with it comes a strange cultural pressure: run faster, plan harder, become more.
It is exhausting just to think about. And if we are honest, many of us are still tired from the year we just finished.
Which is why this moment this odd, in-between moment when December is dying but January has not yet taken its first breath might be exactly the right time to stop.
Not to rest so we can run harder later. Not to strategize our stillness so it serves our productivity. But to stop because stopping is its own kind of faithfulness. To pause because the God of the universe has never once been in a hurry.
"Be still, and know that I am God."
The Hebrew word translated "be still" is raphah and it means something closer to "let go" or "release your grip." It is the word you would use for unclenching a fist, for setting down something you have been white-knuckling. The command is not merely about silence or stillness of body. It is about the posture of the soul. It is God saying: Stop striving. Stop grasping. Stop trying to control what you were never meant to control.
And then, only then, know that I am God.
The knowing comes after the releasing. The clarity follows the stillness. We cannot hear the voice of God while our own anxious thoughts are screaming. We cannot discern where He is leading when we are already sprinting in the direction we have chosen for ourselves.
Isaiah knew this. He watched a nation of people so frantic to secure their own future that they made alliances with Egypt, hedged their bets, schemed and planned and ran anywhere but back to the God who had carried them through the wilderness, through exile, through every impossible thing. And he delivered God's verdict with something like sadness:
"In returning and rest is your salvation, in quietness and trust is your strength, but you would have none of it."
There it is. The salvation was in the returning. The strength was in the quietness. But they would have none of it. They preferred to run. They preferred the illusion of control.
And we are their children.
Here is what I want you to hear in this strange, liminal week between the end of one year and the beginning of another: The pace is not the point.
You don’t have to sprint into January. You don’t have to have your word for the year, your goals spreadsheet, your morning routine perfectly calibrated before the ball drops. You’re not behind. You are not failing. You are standing at a threshold, and thresholds are meant to be paused in.
Think about what happens at an actual threshold…a doorway. You don’t barrel through at full speed. You pause. You take a breath. You look back at the room you’re leaving. You look forward at the room you’re entering. You gather yourself before you cross.
What if this week is God's invitation to do exactly that?
What if instead of letting the frantic energy of a new year sweep you along like a leaf in a current, you planted your feet on the bank and let the water rush past? What if you gave yourself permission to be slow, to be quiet, to let God steer the ship instead of grabbing the wheel yourself?
This isn’t laziness. This isn’t passivity. This is the most active kind of faith, the faith that believes God is actually God, that He is working even when we are not, that our frantic striving adds nothing to His sovereign plan.
The world will tell you that rest is earned. God says rest is given. The world will tell you that stillness is wasted time. God says stillness is where strength is found. The world will rush you. God will not.
So in these final days of December, before the calendar flips and the world starts running again, let yourself be still. Unclench your fist. Release the anxious grip on the future you can’t see and the past you can’t change.
Be still. And know.
Know that He is God. Know that He was God in 2025, even in the parts that hurt. Know that He will be God in 2026, even in the parts you can’t imagine. Know that His pace is not your pace, and His ways are not your ways, and that this is good news because your pace was killing you, and your ways were not working.
He is the one who holds the years. He is the one who numbers our days. He is the one who knows what January will bring, and February, and all the months beyond. We can trust Him with the time we have been given because He is the God who gave it.
The new year will come whether we’re ready or not. But ready is not the point. Faithful is the point. And sometimes faithfulness looks less like running faster and more like standing still long enough to hear where God is actually leading.
Christmas is over. The world is gearing up.
But you? You can pause. You can breathe. You can let God steer.
There really is no better time.
Today
Before this day ends, find five minutes of deliberate stillness. No phone, no music, no agenda. Sit somewhere quiet, and instead of praying words, simply breathe. With each exhale, consciously release one thing you are trying to control about the coming year. With each inhale, ask God to fill that space with Himself. Do not try to hear anything. Just practice letting go.
