This morning started with a spoon.

Not a big thing—just breakfast.

My oldest didn’t want to get up. He said he was tired, even though he had already slept in past and time was ticking. We were running out of time, and I was trying to keep things moving.

I poured him a bowl of cereal, only to realize we didn’t have any small spoons clean. I forgot to run the dishwasher last night, so all that was left was one of those oversized serving spoons.

He looked at it and refused.

Wouldn’t eat. Wouldn’t budge.

So I sat down and ate his cereal myself, mostly because I didn’t want it to go to waste and the milk was already poured. He went back upstairs. Still not dressed. Still not moving.

And I sat there at the kitchen table, feeling it—that pull.

Do I go in there and make him get up?
Do I raise my voice, take something away, keep nagging?
Do I let the consequence play out and let him miss the bus?
Do I step in and help?

It’s such a small moment.

But underneath it was something deeper.

Control.

I’ve been reading through Acts, watching Paul move through arrest after arrest, trial after trial. What stands out isn’t just what’s happening to him—it’s how he responds.

He doesn’t scramble or manipulate the situation. He doesn’t grasp for control. He speaks when it’s time to speak, stays quiet when it’s time to be quiet, and entrusts himself, over and over again, to God.

And then there are the Pharisees—clinging, plotting, even breaking their own laws to maintain their grip on power, going so far as to make a vow not to eat until they had killed Paul.

It’s extreme.

And yet… it’s familiar.

Because underneath it is this subtle belief:

If I don’t take control, everything might fall apart. It’s all on me to make this happen.

I don’t think my kitchen table this morning looked all that different.

No crowds. No trials. Just a tired kid and a bowl of cereal.

But the same question sat in front of me:

What am I trying to control right now?

I stayed at the table—not because I didn’t care, but because I was trying to discern how to move forward. There’s a difference between reacting and responding, and I didn’t want to rush in just to regain control of the situation.

I just needed a moment.

So when I went upstairs, I didn’t raise my voice. There were no heavy consequences.

Just presence.

I helped him get his hoodie on. Stayed near. Reminded. Encouraged. Gave him what he needed in that moment—not necessarily what I wanted, but what actually helped him move forward.

It wasn’t efficient. It wasn’t impressive. And honestly, it was a little annoying—because he does know how to do this on his own.

But today, this was what he needed.

And we got out the door on time.

At church this week, we talked about living from rest, not for it—and the practices that support that kind of life: humility, gratitude, margin.

And I can see now how easily I move in the opposite direction.

Control says, I know what needs to happen here.
Humility says, maybe I don’t.

Control says, this needs to go my way.
Gratitude says, thank you for what is, even if it’s slow, messy, or inconvenient.

Control rushes in, filling every space, trying to fix and force.

But margin… margin is what gave me the ability to sit at the table for a minute longer.

To pause.
To pray.
To choose a response instead of a reaction.

I’m starting to see that rest isn’t just about slowing down.

It’s about releasing control.

Because control is exhausting. It tells me that everything depends on me—on my ability to manage, fix, and force outcomes.

But maybe it looks more like a pause at the kitchen table, a quiet prayer, and choosing presence over pressure, trusting that God is at work, even in a slow, ordinary morning.