My first instinct is to hurry forward in everything I do.
I wake up and immediately think, let’s get downstairs. The coffee maker is too slow. I check my phone. Then I check it again. I glance at the time and begin to formulate the day—the next move, the next task, the order of things. I estimate how long this will take, how long that will take.
The ice maker and water dispenser on my fridge take forever to fill my cup.
The microwave—my God—a full minute to heat up my food feels like an eternity. I speed and change lanes even when I’ve left early for my commute.
In conversations, I can tell within seconds what the other person is trying to say. And inside, I feel it rising: Just get to the point. NOW.
My life cannot happen fast enough, because in my mind, my life is always just ahead of me. The future is where I believe life lives.
The mind is infatuated with not now. It treats the present moment as a waiting room—something to get through rather than something to be in. Presence feels boring to the mind because it offers no urgency, no storyline, no control.
And then God speaks—quietly, patiently:
Slow, Johnny boy. Slower… until time stands still.
Feel this moment, for the next second does not exist.
Feel your feet on the floor.
Feel the cool inhale of air filling your lungs.
“Be still, and know that I am God.”
— Psalm 46:10
Lord, let me feel You in my soul.
Not as thought, but as being.
Timeless.
Aware.
Eternal.
Be my refuge in this moment.
The stillness beneath the noise.
The now that never passes.
“The Lord is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.”
— Psalm 91:2
Closing Prayer
Father God,
Slow my restless heart.
Quiet my racing mind.
Pull me out of the future I keep chasing
and place me gently back into Your presence.
Teach me to live where You live—
not in what’s next,
but in what is.
Be my refuge when impatience takes over.
Be my peace when the moment feels too small.
Let me rest in You,
here and now,
where time loosens its grip
and Your presence is enough.
Amen.
