A Season of Rest

Dear Diary,

Alexa, play Slow Me Down by Charles Weems. Little did I know that the words of the bridge would become my reality.

On July 28th, life shifted in a way I never saw coming. One moment, I was soaking in a weekend that felt so full of purpose, and the next, I was staring at an email that said I had to leave the U.S. immediately. You know when you're playing Monopoly and you pick a Chance card that tells you Go directly to jail, do not pass Go, and do not collect $200? Well, that's exactly how it felt.  In an instant, fear, confusion, and shock became my closest companions, and I couldn't help but wonder, had God stepped away for a moment and left the throne unattended? It's hard to explain the unraveling of that day, but maybe the best way is to start from the beginning.

But before I tell you what happened next, I need to take you back a few years, to where this story really began. 

Back in the Summer of 2017, I made my maiden flight to the U.S. and landed at Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport for a three-week trip. I had been selected for a fully paid conference in Atlanta, GA, by a family foundation that runs a leadership program for emerging young leaders from developing countries. It was my first time out of the continent, and to say I was elated would be an understatement. Growing up, I had never envisioned myself living in America, but this trip kick-started the journey that would eventually have me calling this foreign land home four years later.

After a couple more visits, I began to imagine what life would be like here. I was fascinated by how the sun set at 8:30 PM during the summer, mesmerized by the changing seasons, and marveled at how the trees told stories with every change of weather. Beyond that, I began to discover who I was beyond the noise, and I started finding my voice in the midst of a country that thrives on chaos. Slowly, that foreign land began to feel like home, and four years later, I called this land home. I started as an international student, graduated, got a job, and began building a life for myself.

My years in the U.S. have been marked by God's favor and provision. But as fulfilling as this journey has been, a slippery slope I've been teetering on is tying my worth, identity, and validation to where I live.

I didn't notice it then, but slowly, "God called me here" started to sound more like "this is who I am." I was proud of what I had built, and rightly so, but somewhere along the way, being in America had started to mean more to me than being in alignment with God. It's subtle how identity shifts: what begins as gratitude can quietly morph into attachment. And attachment, when left unchecked, turns into idolatry.

See, the thing about blessings is that if we're not careful, they can quietly become idols. The God we serve is jealous, and the moment we make something an idol, He can quickly take it away. An idol isn't always a golden calf; sometimes it looks like a good thing. A job. A relationship. A career. Even a country code. For me, I had tied my worth, identity, and validation to the life I was building in America. And in His mercy, God had to intervene, not to punish me, but to redirect me. He wanted me to see that my value didn't come from a place, a position, or a status; it came from Him.

Looking back, I realize that July 28th wasn’t just about losing something precious. It was about God pressing pause on my constant striving. He was pulling my eyes away from everything I thought defined me so I could finally see Him clearly again. In His own way, He was saying, “It’s time to rest. It’s time to breathe. It’s time to be still.” What felt like a painful ending was really the beginning of a sabbath season I didn’t even know I needed.

It wasn't until I paused and reflected that I began to understand what that "pause" really meant. God wasn't punishing me; He was pastoring me. He was teaching me rest,  something I had heard about in Scripture but had never truly lived. That's when the words of Psalm 23 began to come alive in a new way.

The Psalm found in chapter 23 is probably one of the most famous and most quoted Psalms ever written by King David. In verse 2, David says, "He makes me to lie down in green pastures; He leads me beside the still waters." The verbs "make" and "lead" translate to rāḇaṣ and nāhal, meaning "make to rest" and "bring to a place of rest." Then, in Exodus 20:8-11, we see the command to remember the Sabbath, rooted in God's own example after creating the universe.

So in one instance, we see a Shepherd who causes His people to rest, and in another, a Father who commands it by showing us how He Himself rested. But despite these verses, we as humans are often strangers to rest. In a culture that glorifies hustle and praises being a Martha, slowing down feels almost unnatural. Yet, like Mary, there are moments when the best thing we can do is sit at Jesus' feet and simply be. And when we resist, God in His mercy sometimes steps in; He makes us lie down, even when we don't want to. That's exactly what He did for me.

Which brings me back to that fateful day of July 28. As I sat in shock and confusion, the enemy's lies began to creep in. He whispered that God had forsaken me, that His hand had lifted, and that I was left alone to face this uphill battle. To make matters worse, I was weighed down by my own mistake, one that had put my visa in jeopardy, and self-blame began to settle in. I feared that this misstep had not only undone everything I had worked for but also jeopardized the promises I was still waiting on.

With the little strength I had, I prayed a simple prayer: that God would grant me the serenity to accept the things I could not change, the courage to change the things I could, and the wisdom to know the difference. I asked Him to surround me with His angels and prove to me that His hand had not been lifted, even when everything in me felt abandoned. That simple prayer was what I held onto that night as I went to sleep. And it was a long night, because that night, the enemy came for my mind. It was a battle of the mind that I had to fight with God. The lies of the enemy were strong and loud, and I had to counter each one of them with the Word of God.

This is why the Psalmist says, "I have hidden Your word in my heart, that I might not sin against You" (Psalm 119:11). Because in moments like these, it's the Word you've stored up that becomes your weapon. Just as Jesus declared in Luke 4, "It is written," while He was in the wilderness, I also found myself reaching into the scriptures I had hidden in my heart and speaking them back into the darkness. Every verse I recalled was an added lifeline, every whispered declaration became a reminder to me and the enemy that God's truth was stronger than his lies. And just like the Bible reminds us in Psalm 30:5, “weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning”, because eventually, the sun did shine. And it didn't take long; all God needed was a night.

And just like that, the night passed. Not in a dramatic, earth-shattering way, but quietly and softly, the kind of way God tends to work when He's teaching you something about trust. By morning, clarity had begun to creep in. The fear hadn't vanished completely, but it no longer ruled the room. That's when I began to notice the little threads of God's favor weaving together around me, the ways He had already positioned provision and protection before I even asked.

Remember when I said that my life in the U.S. had been marked by God's favor and provision? That morning, I began to see it in real time. I had less than a week after receiving that email to buy a ticket, fly back home, and figure out how to cover my bills. On top of that, the email meant I could no longer work legally, and anyone who has ever paid bills knows they don't pause while you get your life together.

But as Hayley Mulenda recently said, impossible situations are a breeding ground for God to do a miracle, and boy, did He do His big one.

The very next day, I called my manager and explained what had happened. I told her that until this visa situation was resolved, I couldn't legally work. We were already processing my work visa, but since it wasn't ready, I had no choice but to return home and wait. Even in the best-case scenario, the earliest I could come back was October 1. At the very least, I was staring at a forced sabbatical of at least two months.

But here's the thing about favor: it's unearned, unmetered, and often unexplainable. My manager and my company as a whole responded with grace. They granted me a one-year leave of absence, which meant that my job was secure and I would return to the same position and team once my visa was ready. Just like that, a huge weight was lifted, and I could breathe a little easier.

Then came the flight ticket, the next seemingly impossible hurdle. I needed to leave immediately, and because I was already paying for my master's program, I didn't have $1,000 just lying around. But God. I had just received a paycheck that was earmarked for rent and bills, so I called my leasing office and explained the situation. And to my surprise, they not only extended my rent deadline by eight days and waived the late fee, but also allowed me to sublease my apartment, something most lease agreements strictly prohibit.

That opened the door to redirect my rent money toward a plane ticket. And with the miles I had accumulated, I booked a one-way flight to Kenya for only $300; a fraction of the usual $800+ price. As for the apartment, within a week of moving out, I had three different offers from tenants who wanted to stay for the duration I would be away. All of them offered to stay until the end of October, providing me with financial stability while I waited for my visa to be processed.

See what I mean about favor? The kind you can't plan for, hustle for, or even explain. God had me covered in ways I didn't even think to pray for. It was as if He whispered, "I will take care of you, not because you earned it, but because you're mine."

And as I sit back and reflect on how God had orchestrated every detail,  from my company's grace to the lease accommodations, to that unbelievably cheap flight, I’ve realized something important. This season wasn't just about provision; it was about perspective. It was about learning to trust Him fully, even when everything seemed uncertain. It was about seeing that His timing, His plans, and His care are far greater than anything I could create on my own.

This is exactly what made the lessons of this sabbath season so profound. Each moment of waiting, each stretch of uncertainty, each "impossible" situation became a classroom where God was teaching me about trust, rest, and reliance on Him. And I want to share these lessons with you, dear Diary, because they're the ones I carried from that night, through the uncertainty, and into the moments where joy began to replace fear.

So here's what I've learned:

1. The Power of Stillness

• Stillness builds trust. In a world that praises hustle and rewards constant movement, being still feels counterintuitive. Yet, I learned that stillness is where God's deepest work happens. It builds trust. When I had no control over my circumstances, no clarity on the outcome, it was stillness that forced me to rely fully on Him. Waiting, praying, and being present allowed me to experience the truth of Proverbs 3:5-6: "Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to Him, and He will make your paths straight."

• Stillness renews strength. Isaiah 40:31 says it best: "But those who wait on the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles." When life seemed like a storm, pausing and surrendering allowed me to replenish what fear and anxiety had drained.

• Stillness reveals God's presence. Just as Elijah experienced God in a gentle whisper, not in the wind, earthquake, or fire (1 Kings 19:11-12), I discovered that God doesn’t always come in thunderous miracles. Sometimes, He comes quietly, softly, in the space where nothing else can compete for our attention. It was in those quiet moments, in the stillness forced upon me by circumstance, that I could hear Him say, “I have not forsaken you; I am with you.”

• Stillness restores clarity. Amid the chaos of July 28th, when panic threatened to take over, stillness allowed me to see things from God's perspective. It reminded me that even when circumstances seem dire, He is orchestrating every detail. Psalm 46:10 became my anchor: "Be still, and know that I am God." Stillness was not just a pause; it was a form of warfare. Every moment spent sitting in God's presence, resisting the urge to fix everything immediately, allowed me to experience spiritual insight and victory.

2. God Gave Me a New Identity

This season also revealed that God often reshapes us by first stripping away what no longer serves His purpose. When I shared the situation with my mum, she told me that in prayer, God had shown her He was giving me a new identity, but the old had to die first. That process was painful; shedding the "Egypt" in me meant letting go of independence, comfort, and the security I tied to my student and work status.

I had relied on being a student, on my visa, on my career, to define my place and worth. But God reminded me that identity cannot be rooted in circumstances; it must be rooted in Him. 2 Corinthians 5:17 says, "Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come: The old has gone, the new is here!" God was dismantling what I clung to and reconstructing it with truth: I am His, chosen, secure, and fully enough, independent of my visa, status, or surroundings.

3. The Power of a Godly Community

Finally, this season reminded me that God often sends His angels in human form. When I asked for protection and guidance, He surrounded me with a community that became the visible expression of His care. My family poured into me,  financially, spiritually, and emotionally, and I learned how to let myself receive love in ways I had resisted for years. It taught me the power of intercession. My mother's prayers shielded and steadied me when I felt most vulnerable. Her faith became my armor. There is a unique power in the prayers of a parent who knows God's heart for their child. Her persistent intercession reminded me that even when life feels uncertain, God's hand is on me, and He is faithful to do what He promised.

I had always been the strong friend, the fixer, the one everyone leaned on, and vulnerability and showing my weakness felt risky. But when I allowed my friends to see my weakness and pray for me when I couldn't pray for myself, they didn't leave; they didn't judge. They became extensions of God's own hands. Psalm 133:1 says, "Behold, how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity!" That verse became real in my life. My friends' prayers, their persistent love, and their presence in the smallest and biggest moments alike reminded me that God's care is often tangible, manifested through the people He places in our lives.

This community restored something else, too: my sense of being part of a family. After years of navigating independence, I allowed myself to be a daughter, a sister, and a friend who could lean on others without guilt. And in that, I found that God's care is not only spiritual or supernatural, it can be relational, lived out through the hands, hearts, and voices of people who love Him and you.

And now, as I close this page, I realize that God's Sabbath wasn't just a pause; it was a shaping. A quiet work behind the scenes that prepared my heart to receive His provision, His presence, and His perspective in ways I could never have orchestrated myself. The fear that once gripped me has loosened, the lies that once whispered have lost their power, and in their place, I feel a deep, unshakable calm. I step forward not just restored, but renewed, ready to walk into the next season with a heart that trusts, rests, and leans fully into Him. And somewhere in the quiet, I smile, knowing that the One who slowed me down has always been the same One who will carry me forward.

From my heart to yours,

Love Nandi.