I mentioned a while back that I thought about quitting afteramen. The time and energy I was giving it just didn’t seem worth it. I can’t deny that writing to you is healing for me, but it started to feel like a burden instead of something that felt like riffing on life and energy and abundance over drinks with friends. I felt drained from the time I was already committing, and utterly exhausted at the thought of doing more.
I even found myself slightly annoyed with God, like why would you tell me to do something that was just going to make me feel stressed and anxious and even more exhausted than I already was? Like what is the point in giving me something good that is so depleting?
And then God asked me: Who told you to do all that?
Ouch.
You see, I wasn’t just writing a devotional. I was writing it, then formatting it for email, then reformatting it for Substack, then designing cover art, then writing Instagram captions, then recording audio, then uploading and linking the audio in multiple places. Every single week. Six different tasks for one assignment.
What did I actually tell you to do, He asked.
Write.
Write the devotion.
That was it. That was the whole assignment. And somewhere along the way, I turned “write” into a small media company. Then I got exhausted trying to keep up with it. And then I got mad at God for abandoning me in the exhaustion.
I wasn’t burnt out. I was off-task. And I observed myself dress the disobedience up as burnout because burnout sounds like a casualty and disobedience sounds like a choice.
Let me put it another way.
Let’s say, God says, drive the car. Simple. One instruction. So you start driving. But you decide the engine should be more powerful for all the driving you’re doing, so now you need a new engine. Which means you have more power, so now you need better tires. Which costs money, so you have to spend more money. But now that you’ve spent the money, you think it would make sense to try to recoup some of it by offering rides. Well to offer rides you have to add more seats. And a trailer, because why not. Except the trailer makes you burn gas faster, so now you need more gas money. Before you know it, you’re on the side of the road, with an empty gas tank and a car full of people with no idea how you’re going to get money for gas to drive the passengers that pay for the parts that improved the car that God told you to just drive.
Oh, and you’re furious at God for “allowing it.”
I’m so guilty of this ambitious obedience, as I’ve come to call it. We take our cue from Him and then we expand the assignment until it’s unrecognizable, exhausting ourselves fulfilling a job description God never wrote, and then blame Him for the weight of something we built.
Matthew 11 tells us our Savior’s yoke is easy to bear, and the burden He gives is light. He invites us to walk with Him and work with Him, watching how He does it. In doing so we learn the unforced rhythms of grace. He promises not to lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on us. Yet we convince ourselves the most depleting parts of our lives are most closely tied to Him.
So why can’t we simply follow His direction, nothing more, nothing less?
I think it’s because obedience feels too simple to be enough. Surely there’s more to prove. Surely writing isn’t enough, I need a whole platform. Surely the simple assignment God gave me isn’t complete, let me improve it with six additional steps He never asked for.
And when it collapses under its own weight, we go looking for a silver lining. We search for whatever we can salvage from the wreckage and call it looking on “the bright side.”
Silver linings are the residue of gifts you fumbled. That’s all they are. The positive you see in it is just what’s left over - the residue - from the promise in the original assignment you were given. And that’s what we’re left with when we struggle to admit we complicated something that was originally simple.
You don’t have to dig the car out of the ditch. You don’t have to fix what you overbuilt. You can just do what He said now. Put down everything you added. Pick up the original instruction. Drive the car.
I stopped trying to run afteramen. like a media company this week. I’m writing. That’s it. That’s the assignment. That’s what I’m doing.
I wonder…
- Where have you added seats, tires, a trailer, and people to something God only asked you to drive?
- What’s the original, simple instruction that’s now buried under everything you added to it?
- Is what you’re calling burnout actually disobedience wearing a more sympathetic name?
If you know someone who may appreciate this perspective, please share this link with them. See you on Sunday.
I love you.
Coi Marie
Affirmation
My life and my work reflect the unforced rhythms of grace that were always meant for me.
If this landed for you, pass it on. First time reading? Catch up at afteramen.org.
