There is a reason for fallow time. Farmers knew this, and would alternate fields and crops to give the land its own version of a vacation. I don't know if this still happens, what with the emphasis on productivity above sustainability that is in vogue. 

 

John and I have never excelled at taking time off. Perhaps it is the residue of having parents from the Greatest Generation, who recycled aluminum foil before the word existed, and eschewed going out to dinner when there was food in the fridge. It was all about frugality. Maybe our habits are a side effect of having nine children, which is not something that lends itself to reprieves. At the risk of being cocky, a full stop after forty years of parenting looks like Simone landing after a routine without a hop. 

 

But God has intervened on occasion. When we were moving from Albuquerque to California, a stressful and hot transition, I had an appendectomy in Flagstaff. This enforced three days we had not otherwise planned for in the cool of a hospital for me, and a hotel for John and four kids. What followed was not technically restful, arriving in our new home with 187 boxes to unpack, but still. 

 

The ten days of horizontal living when I rested my back was in a manner of speaking a vacay. I binged on New Amsterdam, to immerse myself in the medical woes of people far worse off than myself. I did no laundry, no dishes, and no vacuuming. That goes a long way toward pampering. Maybe God wanted me to slow down, or maybe He just wanted to get my attention for learning boundaries. Even God rested on the Sabbath.