Be Still Doesn’t Mean Sit Still.
Do you remember when your parents would tell you to sit down and be still? Or when your teacher finally had had enough of the constant pencil tapping and told you to be quiet? Recently, anytime I heard the words “Be still” about God, I felt like it was in that same context as a teacher or parent, but after really reflecting on this phrase, I am starting to see that’s not what God is saying.
It wasn’t until recently that I was officially diagnosed with ADHD. I would joke around about it, but it was hard for others to see because it was masked by my anxiety, which is pretty common for women, and actually, the diagnoses usually come at a later age in women as well.
I feel like God has never said, “Stop moving. Stop fidgeting. Stop being the person I created you to be.” If you are unfamiliar with ADHD, you can’t just turn it off and on when you want, or if you have never struggled with anxiety, you don’t get to pick and choose when it comes and when it goes. Real talk- when people tell me to “stop being anxious” or “stop moving,” it’s like my chest gets so tight and I feel like I am in trouble or I am too much for people. I wondered if God felt that way about me. Am I too much for God? Am I failing God? He tells us to “Be Still,” and I can’t even do that simple task. I was truly wrestling with this.
But the more I wrestled with those words, the more I realized—God wasn’t scolding. He wasn’t demanding the impossible. He wasn’t telling me to stop being the way He made me.
He was saying, “Stop fighting battles that aren’t yours. Stop trying to hold it all together. Stop spinning your wheels, thinking you’re the one in control.” My first thought was ooooffff. Control freak over here. Do you know how hard it is to let go?? Following that mini freak-out session, it hit me….
Be Still….Be still and not control. That’s the whole point.
The stillness He asks for isn’t about my body. It’s about my soul.
It’s about unclenching my fists, even if my legs are bouncing.
It’s about breathing out the panic, even if my thoughts still dart in every direction.
It’s about remembering that the weight of the world is not on me.
I don’t have to force my brain into silence to be faithful (He doesn’t want the silence). I just have to hand over my chaos to Him.
Being still isn’t shutting down.
It’s surrendering.
It’s saying, “I trust You to fight for me, even when I can’t quiet myself.”
And maybe, for people like me—people whose minds are loud, whose hearts are restless—that’s the most radical kind of stillness there is.
