At this time of year, when I hear the word Sabbath, my mind doesn’t go to rules or obligations. It goes to warmth.
To firesides where flames dance lazily.
To winter hillsides and open moorland.
To a bowl of soup in a remote inn, warming the hands and the heart.
To yarn and needles meeting in a soft rhythm.
To the small joy of taking photographs.
To moments of writing without agenda.
To the sacred art of doing absolutely nothing at all.
These moments — simple, earthy, human — are thin places.
Spaces where time loosens, where the heart unclenches, where God becomes almost tangible again.
And I often wonder: How different our world would be if it was built to encourage this instead of exhausting us?
Instead, we live inside a culture addicted to motion — a 24/7 hum of activity where rest feels almost transgressive. Even our downtime is invaded by notifications. We move so fast we often don't notice our own weariness, let alone the small glimmers of grace waiting quietly in the corners of our days.
If we take seriously the idea that humanity is made in the image of God, and if we honour the mystical truth that even God “rested on the seventh day” then our frantic pace isn’t simply unhealthy. It runs against the very rhythm we were created for.
Sabbath should never be seen as a luxury for it is woven into the fabric of creation.
A pulse we are meant to keep. A thin place built into the architecture of being human.
And the truth is that so many people, in every context of life, are quietly reaching breaking point. You hear the stories everywhere; workplaces, families, hospitals, churches, classrooms. People carrying more than their spirits were ever designed to bear.
This isn’t a personal failing however, it's cultural, collective and systemic. It affects all of us and has frankly gone on to long.
But here is the deeper invitation: Sabbath is not about escapeing the business of our lives, it is about remembering who we are.
It is the well from which life flows, the breath that renews the breath and the space where God slips back into our awareness like warmth returning to cold hands.
Perhaps today, all we need is one sabbath moment -
a flame, a hillside, a spoonful of soup,
a skein of yarn, a photograph,
or a single unmoving pause -
and let it be our thin place.
Let this be a small rebellion against the relentless noise and a quiet returning to the rhythm God placed in us from the beginning.
Because the world may not yet be built to give us rest…but we can shape our souls to receive it.
Blessings, Jayne