I sat across from friends in Central America recently, exhaustion and defeat written plain on their features. You could say it had been a hard season—if a season could last for years. Uncanny tragedies, thrust-upon leadership roles, team conflict: Each had subtracted their pound of flesh from a couple with sweeping love for this country, this people. 

My husband and I asked what they were doing when they felt fully alive—and when they’d last done that activity. Neither could remember. One couldn’t remember anything about which they felt confident.  

Throughout the week, as they articulated more of their reality and, in truth, hopelessness, I disclosed a little more of my own experience with burnout. (You could call me “highly experienced.” Professional, even.)  

I shared a prayer my mom prayed for herself and now prayed for me: that I’d complete the good works God had prepared in advance for me to do (Ephesians 2:10)—no greater, no less. 

Frankly, in seeking to do whatever God asked, I encountered a discernment problem. 

Frequently, I didn’t see myself with sober judgment (Romans 12:3). There was constantly a yawning gap between the person I wanted to be, the people I wanted to help, and my actual abilities and God-given limitations. 

See, I realized Jesus probably wasn’t burned out all the time. And unlike Jesus, I realized that when I was burned out, I was the least Christlike. In fact, I was often the least connected…to the Gospel. 

Perhaps I’d quietly hitched my identity to what I do, thinking that real Christians had nothing left to give. They didn’t know abundance, but poverty. Those were certainly the super-Christians. 

And in my burnout, I proclaimed a false gospel both to myself and those around me—who I’d come to “reach.” I’m a daughter, not a slave (Romans 8:15). I thought of the father in the story of the prodigal son, laying down his dignity once again to invite his elder son to the family party. 

Was I simply more content away from the feast, hoe in hand? No, thanks. Enjoy the feast.

Still—though my friends, like me in that endless season, needed truth, just as much, they needed a nap. They needed belly laughs, and someone to wash the dishes. Someone to receive their stories and help them discern what, of all their burdens carried for God, they could lay down in His name. Someone to remind them they were worth so much more than what they offered as God’s employees. 

This week, may God bring to mind someone who can show you His face—and take your hand to quietly lead you out of burnout.