The minutes nobody could touch

There used to be a door in your day. Maybe midafternoon. Maybe after a hard phone call, or once the house finally went still. You stepped away and nobody followed. No list, no messages, nobody needing anything. For a few minutes the world let go of your sleeve. If you miss anything, it's those minutes.

That break came with a price tag. You were buying a permission slip. With a cigarette in hand, stopping had a reason. With empty hands, it feels like you owe someone an explanation. So you paid for an excuse to rest. The cigarette rented you a break you already owned.

It was a hall pass for an empty hallway. Nobody was checking. Rest was never something you had to buy. God rested on the seventh day and blessed it, long before anything put a price on a break. He built the pause into you. It comes free, with nothing to hold. It was yours before the first cigarette.

Take it back today. Same hour, same few minutes, hands in your pockets. Let the world wait. If holding nothing feels odd, notice how odd that is, and stay until the time's up. That's God handing you back a gift with nothing attached. I don't need a reason to rest. I never did.