I like my happy little comfort zone. It’s called a comfort zone for a reason—it’s comfortable. It’s not scary. It’s my own bubble with just enough space for me, with no place for the scary or the different. Those things aren’t allowed, because they’re not comfortable.

But the bubble isn’t opaque. The outside world is still visible, and sometimes even tries to work its way inside. Right now, that world is filled with all those things I like to keep far away. There are a lot of people who think differently than I do, even people I’m friends with, and they’re angry. I don’t understand a lot of it, but I have my comfort zone, so it’s okay. I make my tea, curl under a blanket, and retreat into that zone.

Because facing things right now is scary. In the past, it was okay for people to have different opinions. We could sit down and have a civil, intelligent conversation. I would even share my tea. It was interesting to see things from another perspective. Now, and especially with the ever-growing social media trend, people just want to aimlessly yell and not listen.

So I retreat further into the bubble, because I don’t like yelling. I don’t like being accused of things, especially when the accusations aren’t true. But I don’t know enough about the facts to defend my point of view. I keep it simple, but even “I follow God” is seen as a black mark on my permanent record. People have their own opinions on what being a Christian means, and most of it is untrue. But I’m powerless to break down their walls of anger to even try to explain.

So I retreat even further into the bubble, because I don’t like confrontation. I remain silent, because they’re going to believe what they’re going to believe. Because “I can’t change their minds, anyway.” I offer no opinions. I comment very little. I share only things that are inoffensive, because if I were to share anything that could spark an opinion, I’m viewed as hateful.

What have I done that is hateful?

I try to paint the walls of my bubble, to block even my view of the outside world. But somehow, people are scraping off the paint job. “Don’t be so blind to the truth,” they say, which confuses me, because I have the ultimate Truth already. “You’re being oppressed!” they shout. “You should be angry like we are!”

But why?

So I turn to God. I don’t tell them that, but they don’t have to know of my prayers. They don’t have to know that I pray for their healing, and for my own strength. They don’t have to know that I’ve asked God to watch over them, because they have no need to depend on anything but their own self-constructed strength. But I don’t have that. I would go so far to say that they don’t, either, but I don’t want to offend them. So I say nothing, out loud.

Sometimes, though, it seems a miracle happens: Someone comes along, offering a whisper of encouragement. “Me too,” they say. “I agree with you.” They are few. Or, they are many, but are also afraid to speak up, like me. They’ve formed their own little bubbles, but we can communicate between them. We can talk, and be comforted in the knowledge that we’re not alone. God has answered our prayers, not yet for the healing of others, but for the comfort of ourselves. He begins building our strength, by binding us together.

It’s not an army. We don’t want to fight. Mostly, we don’t want others to fight. We can comfort, even if we disagree. We can try to retain friendships, even when we feel pushed away. I’ll remain in my bubble, for now. I don’t look forward to the day God pops it, because then people really will be unhappy with me. I don’t like angering others, but at least He’s offering His strength to all us bubble-clad people beforehand.

I have a busy schedule. Rehearsals to attend, meetings to prepare for, work to complete. I often spend my weekends driving across various states, with various bags in my trunk for each of my various appointments. When I get home late Sunday night, I unpack my car and say, “I could use another day just to relax.”

Where did we go wrong?

So God blessed the seventh day and hallowed it, because on it God rested from all his work which he had done in creation.
—Genesis 2:3

Recently, I had a Sunday afternoon to relax. We cleared the schedule, and I sat on the couch in comfortable clothes. That Sunday had been declared a “day of rest,” but… I didn’t know what to do. I needed a schedule. Or a suggestion. I had a book in my purse, and a video game console in front of me, but I still didn’t know how to occupy those few hours. It was at that point that I realized how completely off the mark I’ve been.

Even God Himself, in the beginning, rested. He created the entirety of the universe, with all the planets and its animals and human life, and then… He took a break. On the seventh day, He rested. Who are we to think we don’t need that, too? From the days of Moses, God commanded that we, too, rest: “Remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy.” (Exodus 20:8) This isn’t a mere suggestion. It’s one of the ten commandments, right up there with honoring God. Don’t have other gods, don’t murder people, do honor your parents, and take a break.

I often wondered why Christians don’t follow the Sabbath rule, as commanded. Truth is, the early Church did. When Christianity was still a blossoming religion—probably before the word “Christian” was even a thing—they still identified as Jewish. Therefore nothing should interfere with the Sabbath, and church as we know it was held on the following day instead. As much as I’d like to honor both, that’s a lot of downtime for someone as busy as me. Besides, God didn’t command two resting days. That’s just lazy. I’ll take the Sunday, with my fellow Christians. (But maybe petition taking back the Sabbath like we’re instructed.)

Resting isn’t easy. When someone asks when I’m available, Sunday is tempting to fill. I am, after all, usually busy the rest of the week. But after that recent day of rest, I better understood why it’s required. I woke that Monday feeling refreshed and ready for the week, rather than slogging through the morning. I wasn’t wishing for another day in the weekend to recoup. After all, that’s the entire point of Sunday to begin with.

So I’ve tried. I’ve turned down invitations for Sunday affairs. I’ve limited the day’s activities to those that better life, both mine and for those around me. Spend the afternoon reading. Or play an instrument. Or attend a concert. I would like to even cut out Internet use, for its endless hours of wasted time.

I’ll slip up sometimes. I’ll have a meeting I can’t avoid, or get home late and go straight to bed. But little by little, I’ll clear the schedule. I’ll make it to Sunday Mass, rather than squeezing it in on Saturday night. To invitations, I’ll say, “Sorry, I can’t; it’s Sunday.” Of all things in my ever-busy schedule, I didn’t think honoring a day of rest would be the most difficult. But as God rested, so shall I.