In Seven
By Mary Ann Samedi
I spoke the stars into being—
flung galaxies like sparks from My fingertips.
I told the seas where to stop,
the mountains where to rise,
and the sun when to clock in for the day shift.
I made man from dust—
and then, woman from man—
breathed My own breath into lungs
that had never tasted air.
Six days—
I worked. Then, stopped.
Not because I was tired—
but because creation is art,
and I’m the Artist who finishes what He starts.
Then came day seven.
No hammers. No nails. No toil.
I pressed pause.
Not because I was spent—
but because I was done.
It was good.
It was whole.
It was worthy of stillness.
You call it Sabbath.
I call it a standing ovation for everything I’ve made—
including you.
And yet—
you keep running,
scrolling,
stacking your calendars
like they’re towers that will touch heaven.
You work yourself ragged
while telling yourself you have not other choice.
But I don’t need your burnout.
I need your being.
The Sabbath wasn’t Me saying,
“Stop, because I’m tired.”
It was Me saying,
“Stop, because you’re more than what you produce.”
Rest is not laziness.
It’s loyalty.
It’s you declaring,
“My worth comes from God, not my grind.”
When you pause,
you preach a sermon to the world without words:
that your Provider is bigger than your paycheck,
that your Keeper can hold the universe
without your anxious hands on the wheel.
So rest.
Not just for the sake of your body,
but for the sake of your soul.
Lay it down.
Pick Me up.
Because the seventh day is not an ending—
it’s a reminder:
I am enough.
You are Mine.
And this—this moment—
is holy ground.