The art of not trying (after exhaustion & other false gods)

I used to pray
like a man filing reports.
Thought if I got the details right, 
folded my hands just so,
spoke like I meant it,
and memorized the verses like passwords,
I could win God’s approval
like a performance review.

I worked hard at faith.
Clocked in.
Cleaned up.
Didn’t ask too many questions.

Even my doubt
was dressed for Sunday.

Stillness was a task
I added to the list:

Drink the tea.
Lower the voice.

Call it peace.
Fake it if it doesn’t show up.

I brewed chamomile
and tried not to shake.
Sat on the edge of the bed
with my jaw locked and my spine straight,
as if posture could summon
the Holy Ghost.

But the ghost didn’t come.
Not the way I wanted.
No glow. No wind. No comfort.

Peace came
like a man late to his own funeral:
mud on his boots,
grief in his eyes,
and a face that looked
a little too much like mine.

He didn’t say a word.
Just sat down
and let the silence
fill the room like smoke.

No music.
No breakthrough.
Just breath.
Just weight.

And something in me cracked
like an old door
that finally gave in.

I let the prayer fall
without grammar.
No shape.
No beauty.
No performance.

Only the sound
of a man too tired to pretend
he’s not tired.

And that
was the holiest thing
I had ever done.

Now, I know
rest doesn’t reward effort.
It doesn’t come
because you earned it.
It waits,
quiet and steady,
for the moment
you stop trying
to deserve it.

It doesn’t applaud discipline
or show up for good behavior.
It slips in
when you’ve got nothing left to prove,
nothing polished to offer,
nothing left but breath
and bare hands.

Rest is not the prize.
It’s the floor you fall to
when the ladders break.

And peace isn’t soft.
It’s not polite.
It doesn’t care if you’re ready.

Peace is what stays
when everything you built
to impress God
finally burns down
and you don’t rush
to rebuild it.