Breathe Before You Reply

By 9:10 a.m. the day had a tone.

One kid couldn’t find the hoodie that was “the only one that works,” the dogs were nose-pressing the back door, my inbox stacked like Jenga, and somewhere in the laundry room a beeping insisted on being the main character. I caught myself doing that fast, shallow breathing that looks normal on the outside and feels like a sprint on the inside.

I reached for my chai and—without thinking—opened my phone to start swatting at problems. Then a plain thought landed: take five.

Not because the work was done. Not because I’d “earned it.” Just because I know better now. In Dutch, rust means rest, and that word has become a permission slip I actually use. I set the mug down, stepped onto the porch, and let the morning air have me for a minute.

I stood there long enough to hear something besides my own hurry—the distant road, a soft cluck from the coop, a bird somewhere I couldn’t see. Not a sign, just a nudge: small, steady, unhurried. I prayed one honest line:

Lord, steady my pace and make me kind.

Five minutes. One deep breath I actually noticed.

When I came back in, the list hadn’t changed, but I had. The first email waiting was sharp around the edges—the kind that usually hikes my shoulders to my ears. I drafted my reply twice, deleted the first, and sent the one that told the truth without swinging. A child appeared—“Can you sign this paper?”—and instead of snapping, we found a pen and a breath together. I delegated one task at work I’d been clutching (progress) and texted a quick encouragement to someone I’d been meaning to check on.

None of that would’ve happened from a frantic heart. It needed rust in the middle—a pause where God could slip gentleness back into my bones.

I used to treat rest like a finish line: get everything done, then you can breathe. Real life keeps teaching me it’s a rhythm, tucked between emails and errands, folded into ordinary minutes. Sometimes it’s a porch and a prayer. Sometimes it’s a quiet drive without the noise. Sometimes it’s choosing the softer reply when the faster one would feel satisfying.

If today is bossy and loud, here’s what helped me:

• Step away for five (or two). Porch, window, driver’s seat—anywhere you can hear yourself breathe.

• Take one deep breath. Drop your shoulders. Unclench your jaw.

• Pray one line. Steady my pace; make me kind.

• Do only the next right thing. Not the next ten—just the next one.

You don’t have to see the sparrow to remember its lesson: small, steady, unhurried.

Take a little rust in the middle, friend. The work will wait. The grace won’t.

— Brianne