Reverence in Motion
Finding God in Rest, Work, and the Ordinary Rhythms of Lent
Have you ever noticed how God meets you in places you weren’t looking for Him, on a trail, in the grocery store, in a chore, in a moment so ordinary you almost missed it?
That’s where Lent found me this year.
On Ash Wednesday, I tried to choose a Lenten practice, you know….something to give up, something to take on, something to carry for a while. I thought about the traditional invitations: fasting, prayer, almsgiving. I thought about habits I could give up and new disciplines I could adopt. Then someone shared Kate Bowler’s Instagram reel on what Lent is not.
My practice can’t be about fixing me, promising relief, closure, or emotional resolution.
“Lent interrupts the fantasy that one day you will wake up finished, less restless, less tender, less achy, less human.” -Kate Bowler
That I can carry! With my long days and full calendar, I can choose something honest, plain, and impactful. Lent doesn’t ask me to become someone else. It asks me to turn back toward God with my whole self.
What if your Lenten practice didn’t aim to improve you, but simply turned you toward God again? That’s the purpose, right?
And so this feels honest: practice reverence in new ways.
Not the reverence of silence and sanctuary, but the reverence that rises when we pay attention to the life in front of us. The kind that meets us in movement and in stillness, in laughter and in labor. The kind that echoes Isaiah’s invitation:
“In returning and rest you shall be saved; in quietness and trust shall be your strength.” Isaiah 30:15
Because reverence does not live only in our minds and souls. Real reverence is carried in our bodies. It has movement and sound and color. And over the last few days, reverence has shown up in both rest and work.
Reverence as Rest
Reverence met me on the trail.
My sister, my best friend, and I rode together for the first time, three women, three horses, three stories braided together on a narrow, tree‑lined path. My Thoroughbred carried me with his familiar rhythm. My sister’s Standardbred moved with the steady, gait she loves. My friend’s Arabian danced beneath her with that bright, alert energy only an Arabian can give.
Different horses.
Different preferences.
Different ways of being carried through the world.
And yet, on the trail, all of it felt like reverence, sounded like booming laughter, and was painted flea-bitten gray, dark mahogany bay, and glistening chestnut.
When we weren’t laughing, there was a hush in the woods, not silence, but presence. The crackling of leaves beneath hoofs. The kind of rest that doesn’t require stillness, only awareness. The kind of rest Jesus meant when He said:
“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” Matthew 11:28
We weren’t trying to accomplish anything. Well, staying in the saddle can be an accomplishment some days, and there were a few crow-hops, piaffes, and untimely canters.
We weren’t trying to fix anything.
We were simply receiving the gift of being carried in movement, by our horses, by creation, by God.
Think back to a time when you felt carried, by a moment, a person, a place, or by God Himself?
Reverence as Work
The next day, reverence looked entirely different.
I spent the day in the yard instead of the stalls, early‑spring work, the kind that leaves your muscles humming the next morning but fills your body with gratitude while you’re in it. Arty grazed nearby in a small patch of yard, his injured body moving carefully, his presence a quiet companion to my labor and the resting barn cat, Iula, who kept him company as he grazed. I pruned plants so they could grow stronger in summer heat, moved those that had outgrown their space, and divided others so spring beauty could spread. I pulled weeds, hauled debris, and felt the good ache of being alive and able.
We drove the side‑by‑side while my grandson, just a toddler, pretended to steer, wide‑eyed with wonder as the horses played and chased alongside. We took breaks to ride Apache, our blind Appaloosa, and every time he stepped forward, my grandson’s laughter rose like a hymn. My oldest sister, always caring and feeding our family, brought lunch. My family drifted in and out of the work, each offering small acts of kindness that stitched the day together.
Sunday morning, the chicken coop was clean, the eggs were fresh, and the sun rose over everything we tended. And as I worked, I found myself praying small prayers of thanks, nothing elaborate, just prayers of gratitude for strength, for family, for the creatures entrusted to me, for the land that keeps teaching me how to pay attention to God.
What ordinary work in your life becomes holy when you do it with gratitude?
Reverence as a Way of Seeing
Work and Rest, side by side, gently whispered: this is reverence. It isn’t reserved for pews in sanctuaries or moments of stillness. Reverence is something we live.
Reverence is how we handle what God has placed in our care.
It’s the way we prune what needs pruning, move to provide space, and tend what needs tending.
It’s the way we listen, to the land, to our bodies, to the laughter of a child, to the quiet presence of a horse grazing nearby.
It’s the rhythm of work and rest that God wove into creation from the beginning.
Reverence is the soul‑stance that says:
This moment is holy because God is here.
This work is holy because it is mine to do.
These people, these animals, this land, are gifts entrusted, not possessions earned.
Practicing Reverence in Ordinary Ways
We practice reverence when we slow down enough to notice the way Arty grazes carefully beside Iula the barn cat, the way my grandson’s laughter rises like worship, the way my own breath steadies my body as I work.
We practice reverence when we treat ordinary work as holy, pruning, cleaning, hauling, feeding, tending. Work becomes worship when we do it with awareness of God’s presence.
We practice reverence when we honor the bodies God gave us, listening to our limits, letting “Thank you, God” prayers rise naturally.
We practice reverence when we receive creation as a teacher; horses, land, light, seasons, and even the rhythm of a big, gaited Standardbred, whom I now see through my sister’s joy.
We practice reverence when we make space for others’ ways of encountering God, my Thoroughbred, her Standardbred, my friend’s Arabian. Different horses, different histories, different ways of being carried through the world. All of it holy.
The weekend was ordinary.
Maybe this is what Lent has been trying to teach me: that reverence isn’t a feeling reserved for sanctuaries, but a way of moving through the world with attention and gratitude. A way of letting both rest and work become places where God meets us. A way of remembering that every ordinary moment, every hoofbeat, every chore, every breath, can turn us back toward Him.
May we practice that kind of reverence this season.
May we notice the holy in the small things.
May we let our lives become worship, one ordinary moment at a time.
A Prayer
Lord,
Teach us to rest in Your presence
and to work in Your strength.
Let the quiet moments restore us
and the busy moments steady us.
Open our eyes to the holy hidden
in small, ordinary things—
a breath of wind,
a shared laugh,
a creature grazing nearby,
the work of our hands.
In this season of Lent,
turn our hearts toward You
in every rhythm of our days,
until reverence becomes our way of seeing
and worship becomes our way of living.
Amen.