The Pace of Grace

I’m already late.

You were supposed to have this article in your inbox by 7:00 this morning, CST. Instead, you’re reading it a few hours later because, quite frankly, life got in the way. The irony isn’t lost on me because the very reason this article is late is the subject I’m writing about.

Over the past few weeks, I attended a writers conference with my Substack friends, Rachel and Jillian, celebrated Tony’s birthday on vacation, and returned home to a manuscript deadline that has occupied my desk—and my mind—for days. While we were away, my dad made the difficult decision to enter hospice care. (Many of you have faithfully prayed for him over the past six months, and I can’t thank you enough for your encouragement and prayers.) So, returning home has meant catching up at work, at home, in ministry, in writing, and now in caretaking.

None of those responsibilities are unusual in themselves, aside from my father’s health. Yet together they created a persistent sense of urgency. I wasn’t responding to a crisis every moment of every day. I wasn’t putting out fires from morning until night. I simply found myself moving from one responsibility to the next with the constant feeling that I was already behind and had no time for rest. No wonder I’ve been struggling with TMJ!

As I reflected on it, I couldn’t help but hear the voices of my mom and grandma. Whenever I was doing too much at once, one of them would inevitably say, “Dawn, why are you running around like a chicken with its head cut off?” It’s one of those old expressions that probably makes less sense today than it did fifty years ago, but the image still makes me laugh. At the time, I assumed they were commenting on how much I had to do. Looking back, I wonder if they were noticing something much deeper. Maybe it wasn’t my schedule as much as it was my pace.

That thought resurfaced in May while I was attending the Crucible. One of our assignments was to ask five people who know us well two questions: What are three things you love about me? and What are three things you would change if you could? Their responses were encouraging, humbling, and surprisingly consistent. More than one person answered the second question the same way: “I wish you weren’t so busy.”

Apparently, my mother and grandmother weren’t the only ones who noticed.

I’ve thought about those words often since then. Not because busyness is inherently sinful. There are seasons when life is genuinely full. Ministry and work have deadlines. Families have responsibilities. There are aging parents to care for, grandchildren to enjoy, books to finish, meals to prepare, and people to love well. A full life is not necessarily a hurried life. Somewhere along the way, however, I think we’ve confused the two. We’ve quietly assumed that a hurried life must be a productive life, and a productive life must surely be a faithful one.

But when I turn to the Gospels, I don’t find that pattern in the life of Jesus.

One of the most remarkable characteristics of Christ’s earthly ministry is not simply what He accomplished but the pace at which He accomplished it. Think about the demands placed upon Him. Crowds followed Him wherever He went. The sick begged to be healed. Religious leaders challenged Him at every turn. His disciples required constant instruction, and all the while the shadow of the cross stretched across every step He took. If anyone had reason to hurry, surely it was Jesus.

Yet the Gospels never portray Him as frantic.

One story, in particular, spells this thought out.

In Mark 5, Jairus, a synagogue ruler, falls at Jesus’ feet and pleads with Him to come quickly because his little daughter is dying. You can almost feel the urgency in the text. Every minute matters, and every delay feels costly. As Jesus makes His way toward Jairus’ home, the crowds press in around Him until suddenly He stops.

Someone touched His garment.

The disciples can hardly believe the question that follows. “Who touched my clothes?” In a crowd that large, it seems almost absurd. Surely this conversation can wait. Surely Jairus’ daughter is the priority.

But Jesus refuses to be driven by the urgency of the moment. He waits as the frightened woman comes forward and, as Mark tells us, “told him the whole truth.” He listens. He speaks to her with tenderness. He publicly restores her dignity by calling her “Daughter.” Only then does He continue toward Jairus’ house.

By that time, the worst has happened. Messengers arrive with heartbreaking news: “Your daughter is dead. Why trouble the Teacher any further?”

If I had been Jairus, I wonder what I would have been thinking. If only we hadn’t stopped. If only we had moved a little faster.

Yet Jesus never apologizes for the delay because, from His perspective, there wasn’t one.

I have often heard people describe Jesus as unhurried, but I think that observation raises a more important question: Why was He unhurried?

The answer, I believe, is found not in His personality but in His theology.

Jesus trusted His Father completely.

Throughout John’s Gospel, Jesus repeatedly speaks of His “hour.” At the wedding in Cana He tells His mother, “My hour has not yet come.” Later, when His enemies attempt to arrest Him, they cannot because, John tells us, “his hour had not yet come.” Jesus lived with the settled confidence that His life unfolded according to His Father’s sovereign timetable. Neither the demands of the crowd nor the threats of His enemies could accelerate or delay God’s purposes.

The doctrine of providence has always offered believers this same assurance. John Calvin wrote, “Ignorance of providence is the greatest of all miseries; the highest blessedness lies in the knowledge of it.” He understood that God’s providence is not merely an abstract doctrine tucked away in systematic theology. It is the comforting reality that our lives unfold beneath the wise and loving hand of a sovereign Father.

Perhaps that is why hurry deserves more attention than we usually give it.

Christian psychiatrist Curt Thompson has written extensively about the importance of attention, arguing that one of the greatest gifts we can offer another person is our full presence. Modern neuroscience echoes that observation. When our lives are governed by constant urgency, our nervous systems remain in a heightened state of alert. We become efficient, but less attentive. We move faster, but often notice less. Relationships become tasks to manage rather than people to love.

Sound familiar to anyone but me?

Love requires attention.

Prayer requires attention.

Worship requires attention.

But hurry quietly steals all three!

Dallas Willard once said, “You must ruthlessly eliminate hurry from your life.” His friend John Ortberg later reflected that hurry is not just another issue to address; it is the condition that quietly eats away at our spiritual lives because it makes it increasingly difficult to be fully present with God and with one another.

Perhaps that is why Jesus’ invitation in Matthew 11 has become increasingly precious to me. “Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” Notice what He doesn’t promise. He doesn’t promise fewer responsibilities or a lighter schedule. He offers something far greater. He offers Himself.

Real rest has never been found in an empty calendar. It has always been found in the presence of Christ.

As I finish this article—a little later than I intended—I find myself wondering if my grandma’s old expression carried more wisdom than I realized. She wasn’t simply telling me to slow down. She was reminding me that there is a difference between movement and momentum, between diligence and drivenness, between a full life and a hurried heart.

Jesus accomplished the greatest mission in history, yet He never appeared to be racing against the clock. He walked in step with His Father because He trusted the One who held time itself.

Perhaps that’s the invitation for us as well. Not to do less for God, but to learn to walk at the pace of the Savior who never hurried, never panicked, and never doubted that His Father was perfectly on time.

Slow down, friends. Life is worth savoring.

In Christ,

Dawn

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