Last weekend, our family took a walk through Ralph Stover State Park here in Bucks County.
You know how Pennsylvania gets in the fall—that crisp air that makes you want to breathe deeper, and the sound of autumn leaves crunching under your feet like nature’s own soundtrack.
We were wandering down this quiet path, Kevin, Michael, and I, when we came around a bend and all stopped dead in our tracks.
There was this creek, perfectly still, like a sheet of glass. The reflection was so clear we all had to blink twice to figure out where the real trees ended and their mirror image began.
It was one of those moments that makes your whole family whisper, “Wow, God.”
Standing there, I remembered Psalm 23: “He leads me beside still waters; He restores my soul.” And I couldn’t help but wonder—what if our souls could reflect God’s character this clearly?
The Shepherd’s Invitation to Rest
Here’s what hit me about that verse: “He leads me beside still waters.” It’s not like David stumbled onto some peaceful spot by accident.
The Shepherd intentionally guides us there. Rest isn’t something that just happens when we finally collapse from exhaustion. It’s an invitation.
I’ll be honest, I’m terrible at accepting that invitation. Just last month, I was running around like a chicken with its head cut off—Michael had three different school events, Kevin needed help with a church project, and I was trying to meet a writing deadline while our little Shichon, Mia, decided she needed constant attention. I kept telling myself, “I’ll rest when everything’s done.”
But everything’s never done, is it? Our culture has this twisted way of making busyness feel like a badge of honor. We brag about being exhausted. We compete over who’s more overwhelmed. But that’s not God’s design for us. Even Jesus—Jesus!—regularly withdrew from the crowds to find quiet places to pray.
Think about that creek again. When water’s churning and stirred up, you can’t see through it. The reflection gets distorted. Same thing happens to our hearts when we’re constantly in motion, constantly stressed. We lose our ability to reflect Christ clearly.
There’s a difference between being busy FOR God and being still WITH God. I learned this the hard way when I was leading worship at our church. I thought if I just worked harder, planned more, practiced longer, I’d somehow serve God better. But I was so focused on doing that I forgot about being.
I remember a few years ago, one Sunday morning, I was rushing around before service, triple-checking everything, when this elderly woman named Ruth grabbed my hand. “Honey,” she said, “you’re working so hard to worship God that you’re forgetting to actually worship Him.”
Ouch. But she was right.
Still waters in our modern lives might look like those first few minutes in the morning before the house wakes up, sitting with your coffee and your Bible. It might be that drive home from work when you turn off the radio and just talk to God. Maybe it’s taking a walk without your phone, or sitting on your back porch watching the sunset.
The key is intentionality. The Shepherd wants to lead us there, but we have to be willing to follow.
I think about how dolphins have those unique whistles—like names they call to each other across the vast ocean. God has a whistle for us too, a gentle call that says, “Come away. Rest. Let Me restore your soul.”
But we have to learn to hear it above all the noise.
Sometimes I catch myself treating prayer like another item on my to-do list. “Okay, God, I’ve got five minutes. Make it count.” That’s not still waters. That’s a hurried splash at the edge of the pool.
Still waters require us to actually stop. To breathe. To let the sediment of our worries settle so we can see clearly again.
When I finally started accepting God’s invitations to rest—really rest, not just collapse—something beautiful happened. My reflection started getting clearer. Not perfect, mind you. But clearer.
When Life Becomes a Churning Flood
But let’s be real for a minute. There are seasons when life doesn’t feel like still waters at all. It feels like a churning flood threatening to sweep you away.
Two years ago, Kevin had to have surgery. When you’re sitting in that hospital waiting room at 6 AM, watching nurses hustle past with serious faces, your mind starts spiraling. What if something goes wrong? What if the recovery takes longer than expected? How will we manage the bills?
Then Michael came home with a report card that made my stomach drop. Not because his grades were terrible, but because I realized I’d been so caught up in everything else that I’d missed the signs he was struggling.
And somewhere in the middle of all that, our sweet Ragamuffin cat, Frida, got sick, and I found myself crying over vet bills while Kevin tried to reassure me from his hospital bed.
During seasons like that, my spiritual vision gets cloudy. I know God’s there, but I can’t see Him clearly through all the churning. Fear distorts everything. Worry makes His promises look smaller and my problems look enormous.
The enemy loves to keep us stirred up like that. When we’re anxious and overwhelmed, we can’t reflect Christ’s peace to the people around us. Instead, we reflect our panic.
I remember one particularly rough morning during that season. I was running late, stressed about Kevin’s follow-up appointment, when Michael asked me to help him find his science project. I snapped at him. Actually snapped. Over a science project.
The look on his face broke my heart. In that moment, what was he seeing reflected in the “water” of my life? Not the peace of Christ. Not the gentle strength of a woman who trusts God. Just frazzled, impatient mom-mode.
That afternoon, I did something I should have done weeks earlier. I went for a walk. Just me, the fall air, and God. No phone, no agenda, just the crunch of leaves under my feet and a desperate need to get back to still waters.
I started talking to Him about everything—the surgery, the school stuff, the money worries, even my guilt about snapping at Michael. And slowly, as I walked and talked and listened, the churning in my heart began to settle.
By the time I got home, nothing had changed externally. Kevin still needed recovery time. Michael still needed extra help with school. The bills were still bills. But something had shifted in me. The water of my soul had gotten still enough to reflect God’s character again.
Moses needed the mountain. Elijah needed the cave. Jesus needed the garden. Even the strongest people in Scripture required quiet moments with God to see clearly.
That’s not a weakness. That’s wisdom.
Becoming a Reflection Pool
Here’s my challenge for you—and for me too, because I need this reminder daily. What if we committed to “stepping to the riverbank” each day? Just a few unhurried minutes in Scripture and prayer, naming our anxieties and letting God quiet them.
Ask yourself: “What are people seeing in the ‘water’ of my life today?” Are they seeing panic and chaos, or the peace that comes from knowing the Good Shepherd?
The beautiful truth is this: even when we can’t see clearly, God sees us. He knows exactly where we are and what we need. Our lives can become reflection pools for His glory, but only when we accept His invitation to the still waters.
Let’s pray: “God, lead me beside still waters today. Restore my soul. Help me reflect You clearly.”