[Article by Conejo member, Darlene Rivas]
The world is not at peace. It feels loud, anxious, divided, full of noise and grief and pain. And while we are called to be peacemakers, we often discover that we ourselves are not at peace.
Sometimes it feels like we are at war with life. We juggle responsibilities and relationships. We promise we’ll slow down (or speed up) later. We push our bodies with too much work or not enough rest, too much food or too little. And then we (okay, I) lie awake at night rehearsing conversations, replaying failures, trying to solve problems that refuse to be solved at 1am.
Several years ago, I began practicing two small disciplines: “surrendering the night” (my phrase) and “receiving the day,” practices which I first encountered in Dorothy Bass’s Receiving the Day. They are simple, even childlike. Yet they remind me of something profound: I am God’s creature. He is in charge. He will provide what I need for the work he gives me.
To surrender the night is to turn toward God before sleep. Sleep may seem ordinary, but it is holy. When we lie down, we practice trust. We admit, “I am not in charge.” The world will keep spinning. God will stay awake.
Before bed I pray something simple: “Lord, I give this day back to you. It’s too heavy for me.” I take to heart scriptures, such as Psalm 4: “I will lie down and sleep in peace, for you alone, O Lord, make me dwell in safety.” This prayer ritual helps me hand over unfinished tasks and unanswered questions. It reminds me of my limits and that God has none.
If to sleep is to surrender, to wake up is to receive: “This is the day the Lord has made. I will rejoice and be glad in it.” Before reaching for my phone or reviewing my to-do list, I receive the gift of a new day. While still in bed, I thank God for little things I observe like the light at the window, birdsong, the soft warmth of my blanket.
I confess that some mornings I wake anxious. Gratitude doesn’t come easily. On those days I seek help by reciting, “Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be pleasing in your sight,” or singing softly, “O Lord, prepare me….” Peace doesn’t always arrive immediately. But over time, this rhythm of releasing the day at night and receiving a new one each morning has become essential to my walk with God.
We have work to do, but we were never meant to carry everything. We were meant to trust, to rest, to rise again refreshed. These daily rhythms do not erase the world’s pain. They root us more deeply in God’s care. And from that place of rest, we can step back into the world—not frantic, not at war—but hopeful and strengthened.
For me, it begins with two little prayers.
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