When the Well Is Dry

Sabbath as a Creative Lifeline

I used to think Sabbath meant no work. A strict, almost punishing pause. At one time, it sounded like something we were supposed to do—something holy and heavy. But in practice, it often felt like a burden or an obligation I could never quite get right. I remember trying to “keep the Sabbath” for a season, setting aside Sundays to do nothing—but instead of rest, I felt frustrated and constrained. Realistically, life doesn’t pause just because I want it to. And as someone who loves to work and create, the black-and-white idea of rest never really fit me.

My understanding of Sabbath has changed. It’s no longer about what I can’t do. It’s about what fills me back up.

Now, I see Sabbath as a lifeline—especially as a writer. It’s one day a week (usually Saturday for me) when I try not to produce anything. Instead, I live. I hike. I ski. I eat slow meals. I laugh with my husband. I resist the urge to post, to plan, to make something useful. And in doing so, I remember who I am: a human being, not a human doing.

This simple reorientation has made all the difference in my creative life.

Stehekin, Washington...a place I go to rest

The Myth of Endless Output

Creativity is not a machine. You can’t just punch in the right buttons and expect magic to pour out. There are seasons of productivity, yes—but there are also seasons of dormancy, waiting, and incubation. And when I ignore the need for rest—when I push through because “there’s no time” or “I’m behind”—I inevitably find myself scraping the bottom of the barrel. I end up staring at a blank screen, trying to conjure something from thin air when what I really need is to step away.

I’ve learned that if I spend too much time working, I don’t have anything to write about. I have to live a life away from my desk in order to tell stories that matter.

Sabbath has become the space where I refill the well. Sometimes, my best ideas come to me when I’m walking in the woods or sitting in meditation. Sometimes they arrive in dreams. But never when I’m grinding. Inspiration comes when I stop clenching.

Rest as Resistance

In a culture obsessed with hustle, productivity, and the illusion of constant availability, Sabbath is a quiet rebellion. It says: I am not a machine. My worth is not in what I produce. I trust the slow work of God.

For creatives, this is especially radical. We’re often told to “build the platform,” “keep up,” “post more.” But the truth is, the most meaningful work often emerges from deep rest, from unhurried presence, from the parts of life that no one else sees.

God modeled this rhythm from the beginning: six days of creating, one day of rest. And not because He had to, but because He chose to. If the Creator of the universe took a day to pause, why not me?

Jesus said, “The Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath” (Mark 2:27). It’s not about rules. It’s about restoration. It’s about grace.

The Guilt That Creeps In

Still, I’ll admit it: rest doesn’t always come easily. I struggle with guilt—especially when people around me are still going, doing, striving. If I’m reading a novel or taking a nap, some part of me wonders if I should be using that time for something “more important.”

But I’ve learned that those voices aren’t the voice of God. God invites me to lay it down. To be still. To trust. And when I do, I discover I’m not falling behind—I’m being held.

Some Saturdays aren’t perfect. Sometimes I check my email or end up folding laundry or thinking about the next chapter I need to write. But I’ve stopped seeing that as failure. Sabbath isn’t about perfection. It’s about presence. And grace.

A Few Gentle Invitations

If the idea of a full 24-hour Sabbath feels impossible, maybe begin with small moments. Build Sabbath into your daily rhythm.

Take three deep breaths.
Step outside for ten minutes without your phone.
Sit down for a meal without multitasking.
Try one day without reading the news.
Go for a slow walk.
Leave something undone.

Let your soul catch up with your body.

These tiny practices may not seem revolutionary, but they can change everything over time. They soften the edges. They make space for creativity, for joy, for God.

For the Weary Artist

If you’re feeling burned out—if the words won’t come, if the pressure feels too heavy—I want you to know: you are allowed to rest. In fact, you need to. Those who feel they don’t have time to rest are usually the ones who need it most.

You don’t have to earn Sabbath. It’s already yours.

So here’s your invitation: Let your next great idea come not from striving, but from stillness. Let your next chapter be written from overflow, not depletion.

Let yourself rest.
Let yourself be.
The world—and your calling—will keep turning.

And you?
You just might find yourself again.

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May the peace of the Lord Christ go with you wherever he may send you; may he guide you through the wilderness; protect you through the storm; may he bring you home rejoicing at the wonders he has shown you; may he bring you home rejoicing: once again into our doors.