It always starts with a calendar.

One square, then two. A meeting here, a deadline there. A dentist appointment, soccer practice, a parent-teacher conference that sneaks in like a cat on soft feet. Then a neighbor calls needing a favor, and the laundry sits up and says, “Remember me?” The car makes a funny sound. The inbox mocks with its red badges, and your to-do list—color-coded and noble—becomes a battlefield.

Life gets busy.

Not just “I-have-a-lot-to-do” busy, but soul-splintering busy. The kind of busy where your coffee goes cold before you get a sip. Where you’re not sure what day it is, and you haven’t spoken to God since last Thursday. Or maybe it was Tuesday? You hope He understands.

And then, like a whisper in a windstorm, the ancient words come. Not shouted, not scrolled across a screen. Just quietly written on the pages of Psalm 46, verse 10:

“Be still, and know that I am God.”

---

That verse is not a suggestion. It’s not a warm blanket for the contemplative, or a magnet for your fridge. It is a command. An invitation. A rescue rope dropped into the swirling waters of a too-much life.

“Be still.”
Two words that feel almost foreign in the world we’ve built. We are a people of pace. We value hustle, celebrate multitasking, and put productivity on a pedestal. Stillness? That’s for monks and vacationers.

But God isn’t asking for stillness because He needs quiet to think. He’s not pacing the heavens wringing His hands, hoping we’ll finally take a day off. No, He knows our hearts. He knows what happens when we move too fast for too long. He knows we start believing the world spins on our schedule, that if we stop, things might fall apart.

But listen—He is God.
Not us. Not our planners. Not our phones.

---

I remember a moment not long ago. I was driving home from yet another appointment, caught between two commitments and late for both. A red light stopped me, but it may as well have been God Himself. There was a tree outside my window, tall and quiet, holding spring blossoms like open hands.

For a sliver of a moment, I was still. And I remembered.

He is God.

Not my schedule.
Not my inbox.
Not even the needs I carry like bricks in my coat pockets.

Just Him. Holy, eternal, unshaken. The mountains may fall, the earth may quake, but He remains. And He’s not impressed by my productivity—He’s drawn to my surrender.

---

Friend, I don’t know what your calendar looks like today. I don’t know what deadlines loom or what weights you’re carrying. But I do know this: God never asked you to do it all. He asked you to trust Him in all.

So today, maybe even right now, breathe deep. Let the spinning slow. Sit by a window or on a porch or in a parked car. Hear those ancient words again:

Be still.
Know.
I am God.

Not just any god. Your God. The One who sees you when the world doesn’t. Who holds all things—including your calendar, your calling, your chaos—in hands steady and strong.

Life may be busy. But your soul doesn’t have to be.