Finding Room to Breathe -The Grace of Timely Solitude

The slow cadence of small, white-capped waves slides against the sand, rolls over beach wood, and washed-up stones. Between horizon and water, there isn’t much difference between the blues. Wisps of clouds hang in the azure sky, mirroring the sparkle of the lake with a shimmer of its own. My legs stretch, weight shifting on a driftwood log lodged with sand as I take my time exhaling a long-kept breath. 

Mere feet from the lapping waves of Lake Michigan, I am alone, like I have slipped off the radar to nestle myself in a quiet nook on the shore. A steady rhythm of waves continues to tap against the tiny rocks, smooth with years of washing by the water. I am kissed by the breeze, which runs renewing fingers through my hair. After suffocating weeks of strained sleep and an ever-running mind, for the first time, I am full of peace, drifting in the soothing salve of restoration.

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For what seems like the hundredth time, I have taken on too much over the months, cramming every spare minute with some activity, some appointment, something to take the place of just laying still with God. I thought I could fit Him in when I had time, then marveled at the realization that I found no more time to give. Each night I’d burn my lamp into the early morning hours, contemplating whether I was doing enough for Him or if I’ve been falling into a selfish timetable.

The more I slammed into my schedule, the emptier I felt inside. Sure, I was committed to relationships and family, the work I did, and serving in church, but something stuck in me like a small thorn lodged in my spirit. I was a caffeinated, chocolate-addicted ticking time bomb who couldn’t even arrange her prayers into coherent sentences. I made a mess of myself and had no idea how to clean up.

A small opening is carved out today for a photography adventure with a friend, but at the last second, she texts to say she had to reschedule. This irks me at first, because if I had known sooner, I could have rearranged my schedule to move to the next task sooner. But I go to the spot at the nature preserve we were to meet anyway, something in me beckoning to be there. As

I drive through the underhanging branches, get out of my car to wind around the soft dirt and woodchip-splayed paths, I feel a calm wrap over me, a warm shawl I’ve shrugged off too many times. It grows stronger as I step onto the wooden footbridge beckoning me further into the woods, and I admire the budding trees overhead. The sky blazes a trail of clouds to a clearing by the shore, where I sit cross-legged and paste my gaze to the lake, which sings out its welcome.

For a time, I don’t think, don’t blink, don’t even form proper praise. I just breathe, “Thank You.”

Already in the short period I’ve been here, a wonder and rejuvenation have found my splayed heart that’s cracked wide-open and wash the past weeks away like the sand beneath the waves. Peace. God’s peace. The one in Christ that passes all understanding. Here with me, among the waves. What a gift.

In the middle of my silence, I hear the elusive words I’ve pushed down and away in an attempt to distract and get through. A soft voice hidden in the underbrush of my soul: Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Matthew 11:28—I’ve heard this many times before, turned it over and over in my mind as a mantra through the whir of weeks. But have I slowed myself enough to listen, let it sink into my heart? Have I really allowed the Lord to share His rest with me?

In this fleeting moment that will fly away too soon, I unburden myself and toss my cares to the water. Let the invisible liquid hands wring the worry out me, take this tranquil moment and remember it is God who receives my weary heart and hands it back to me with sweeter rhythms in which I operate out of, remaining in Him. Abide in Me, he beckons. Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit by itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in me.  (John 15:4)

Though disappointed, my photography outing with my friend didn’t happen as scheduled, God knew I needed this time. I never would have carved this out for myself, instead taking charge and plowing through my to-do list to get it all checked off and on to the next endeavor.

Sometimes a forced change of pace is necessary, and the unexpected encounters turn out to be exactly what was planned all along. We aren’t meant for chaos and hectic hearts. We’re made for whispers and secret moments that catch in our throat and sing through the silhouette of tree branches and bobbing birds at the base of the shore.

Soon, the world will carry on again, with demands from family, friends, work commitments, and whatever else springs up in the planner. But I am in no hurry to return just yet, so I sit a few minutes longer on the log and let my heart linger, secluded, and serenaded by the God of my fathers, who rests, resets, and restores my once-rushing ways.

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About the Author: Sarah Freymuth loves words. She also loves people. And she loves weaving them together in honest and vulnerable ways that cut underneath the surface and break open the longings of the heart. She is a writer and dreamer whose words breathe hope and wonder into the world. She enjoys being by Lake Michigan and her simple Midwest life with her husband, especially when they blend together on Washington Island. Sarah is the content and storytelling manager for Fellowship of Christian Athletes, writes for numerous publications as Proverbs 31, She Reads Truth, and YouVersion, and finds God in the everyday, upside-down, and in-between moments that make this life real, relatable and beautiful. Her book, All the Hard Things: 50 Days Through the Valley, will be available February 2026 with Harvest House Publishers. http://www.sarahfreymuth.com/