Unplugging Without Apology: Learning to Rest

For years, I asked my school communities to allow space for our teachers and anyone carrying the weight of the daily grind to Rest. Relax. Recharge. I meant it. But I never truly followed my own advice. I would throw out lines like, “There will be rest for me when I’m dead,” chasing ministry, work, and obligations as if exhaustion were a badge of honor.

In the past few months, though, I’ve discovered the miracle of unplugging. I’ve learned to step away from constant dings, calendar alerts, and email notifications. To put my phone on silent. To not peek at emails or invoices from Friday afternoon until Sunday evening, until after dinner.

It doesn’t make problems vanish. But it limits how much of my energy I devote to someone else’s priorities, and that is liberating.

This Christmas break, I finally set a boundary I never had before. When someone tentatively tried to slip a problem into my holiday, "I don't want to ruin your Christmas break," I said calmly, “Then don’t. That problem will wait until I’m back on the clock.” Their surprise was palpable, but it’s becoming easier to imply without saying a word. This doesn’t mean I don’t care; it means my time, especially my family time, is sacred.

Even with these boundaries, the first day of “freedom,” I still woke at 4:30 a.m. The next day, my wife nudged me awake about the same hour. This morning, one of our granddaughters popped into bed at 6 a.m., whispering stories, jokes, and secrets for over an hour with Nonna before finally moving to another room, giving Pa a chance to "pretend he could sleep."

Tomorrow will be the first Christmas morning in decades without our own children or grandchildren under our roof, eagerly awaiting what Santa brought. Those days were magical, but life-shortening without adequate rest.

After Christmas, we’ll travel to the Appalachian Mountains, a nine-hour drive from here. I know we’ll wake at first light, as is our habit. And yet, somewhere along those long roads, amid early mornings and familiar paths, my hope is that I’ll finally stop, not just to refuel the car, but to refuel myself. To rest. To recharge. To experience the elusive gift I’ve been preaching about for years.

Because rest isn’t laziness. It isn’t avoidance. It’s stewardship. Care for yourself so you can continue to care for others, and perhaps finally learn what it feels like to truly unplug.