Silence filled the car as we waited at a red light. Tired and eager to get home after an eventful day, I expected our five-year-old son to fall asleep before we arrived. When the light switched to an advance green arrow, I turned left through the intersection beneath the other lights indicating red for oncoming traffic.
“Mom! Mom!” our son shouted, panicking. “You’re going through a red light!” While I admired his attentiveness and noble effort to save our family from a fatal traffic disaster, I battled irritation, too. He didn’t understand the “rules of the road.” He perceived my perfectly safe and legal action as a reckless lapse in judgment.
My attempt to explain traffic patterns to a young boy whose only driving experience involved a couch cushion and an imaginary steering wheel ended when he interrupted me, indignant and still afraid—“But, MOM!” I took a deep breath and whispered a quick prayer for patience and wisdom.
“My dear child, do you trust me?”
He assured me he did, so I gently exhorted him to sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride.
“Be still. I know what I’m doing.”
You’ve probably anticipated where I’m going with this. It’s a common illustration of our tendency to frantically gain control of our unpredictable, confusing, or sometimes scary lives instead of entrusting ourselves to God’s capable care.
”Be still, and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10) brings comfort to many—even adorning the walls of Christian homes, “be still” emblazoned on recycled wood or offering morning reminders in fancy script on coffee mugs.
Be still. Cease striving. Rest.
It sounds inviting because it sounds peaceful, like a stress-free, quiet afternoon in a cushy armchair, steaming tea and sunbeams warming our resting bodies. “Stillness” implies the absence of conflict, tough decisions, interruptions, emergencies, wasted effort, and all manner of difficulty.
The thing is, “be still” is only the beginning. The verse doesn’t end with an impossible command, as if we could simply abandon our desire for control by choosing to, merely throwing up our hands with a “let-go-and-let-God” attitude and declaring, “Jesus, take the wheel.” No. Inspired by God, the psalmist pairs this popular phrase with the more manageable and practical instruction to “know that I am God.”
How does knowing that he is God relate to that sought-after stillness?
Like the disciples who survived the terrifying storm on the sea in Mark 4, after witnessing Jesus’ authority over the thrashing wind and waves in his command to “be still,” we ask, “Who then is this” (Mark 4:41)?
Only our Lord is the Prince of Peace (Isaiah 9:6). Only our God is sovereign, masterfully holding the world in his hands and orchestrating all the details for our good and his glory (Romans 8:28, Colossians 1:17, Isaiah 45:7–9). Only he is God—we are not.
After his anxious outburst, our son leaned back in his car seat and remained quiet until we arrived home. He realized his limited understanding and confidently shifted his gaze off the traffic lights and onto the toy in his hands. He accepted that he was not the driver because he trusted me.
Trust made the difference.
We will only experience the stillness we long for when we trust the One who created it. And the more we know him, the more we trust him.
