The other day, I rediscovered the story of Elijah.
Elijah’s story is one I’ve read many times before, but something about it is hitting me differently in this season. The stories feel like a feast—a table set with all the things I’ve been craving.
Peel back the layers and Elijah’s story is about learning to rest and allow God to restore us. It’s about learning to slow down and set a different pace after pushing the gas pedal too hard for so long. It’s a story about finding God outside the wall of noise we’ve built up to surround us like a fortress.
If you can, go and sit with his story. You’ll find it tucked in 1 Kings 17–19. It holds so much texture, nuance, and unexpected softness.
Here’s what arrests me: Elijah lives a pretty front-and-center life. I would say he has a flair for the dramatic. He’s used to the big miracles, the flashy scenes. But after one big miracle comes a downward spiral that most scholars deem to be a pit of depression.
Meeting him in one of his darkest moments, God gently pulls Elijah out of the spiral. He shelters him under a broom tree and nourishes him. Through angels. Through fresh bread. Through jugs of water. Through presence and naps. The scene feels sacred and tender; I felt like I was noticing a side of God I hadn’t seen before. The words “tender” and “God” are two I likely wouldn’t have put together before this.
A little later, Elijah is shaken awake by an angel who tells him to get up and eat again. There is a long journey ahead. “Nourished by that meal, he walked forty days and nights, all the way to the mountain of God, to Horeb” (1 Kings 19:8 MSG).
I pull up the locations on Google Maps and trace my finger along Elijah’s route. I realize it could have been completed much quicker than forty days. A person could make the journey on foot in approximately eleven to twelve days. So why all the extra time? Why the painfully slow pace?
Some scholars assume the terrain was rocky; others remark that what matters is the number forty. This number indicates it was a profoundly spiritual journey in which God set the pace for his traveler.
I think about all the care God must have embedded in that slower journey. All the stops to nap. To nurture. To keep Elijah pushing forward in the face of his doubts.
I imagine all the temptations Elijah may have faced to move at a quicker pace. To go back to pushing the pedal. I wonder if Elijah ever embraced the slower pace, maybe even found a little pleasure in it. When I’m befuddled by a slow pace that seemingly makes no sense, I keep coming back around to this thought: Don’t rush the process.
I think “don’t rush” could apply to many parts of our lives: Don’t rush the season. Don’t rush the learning curve. Don’t rush the waiting. Don’t rush the healing. Don’t rush.
We often want to rush because we’ve become used to the efficiency of our digital age, but there are many things in life that cannot be rushed if we want them to turn out right. Many aspects of transformation require being willing to simply take things one slow step at a time. I like to imagine that’s what happened to Elijah during his long walk—a transformation that couldn’t be rushed.
I love the way theologian Kosuke Koyama puts it:
“God walks “slowly” because he is love. If he is not love he would have gone much faster. Love has a speed. It is an inner speed. It is a spiritual speed. It is a different kind of speed from the technological speed to which we are accustomed. . . . It goes on in the depth of our life, whether we notice or not, whether we are currently hit by storm or not, at three miles an hour. It is the speed we walk and therefore it is the speed the love of God walks.”
Peace has a pace. A steady, resilient pace. And sometimes you have to slow down to recover your peace and learn how to move with it. Its pace may make no sense. You might be tempted to move fast because you know you can. But good work happens in the slow breaths, in the unrushed rhythms, in the spirit that swims against the streams of hurry.
To attain that peaceful pace, we must be willing to lay down the hurried pace we set for ourselves in the first place—the speed we thought we needed to maintain to keep up with everyone else.
I think women especially often feel an immense pressure to have it all and then maintain it all just because someone, somewhere, said it might be possible. But the more I unplug—and find the most unexpected joy flooding in—the more I wonder if I even want it all. Is it worth it to have it all if I have to be an exhausted and depleted version of myself to get it? I’d rather take the “all” that I have—the peace that’s coming from setting a more realistic pace for myself—and pour it back into the people and plans that actually matter to me. Peace is a better reward than applause.
I think we’re all a bit tired of racing around in a world that always shouts at us to “be more.” Maybe we could learn to just be instead.
The pace that it takes to try to hold everything together at all times isn’t healthy or sustainable—and it hasn’t been for a long time. There will always be another hoop or hurdle if we keep going in that direction. Another mountain to climb. Another thing to prove. There will always be the temptation to accelerate to a breaking point.
But it isn’t too late.
It’s not too late to learn to slow down.
Are you finally ready to slow it all down?
This was an excerpt from Hannah Brencher’s book, The Unplugged Hours.
You can purchase a copy of The Unplugged Hours by clicking here.
Scripture References
