Removing the Slave Mentality
From Servant to Daughter: My Journey to a Sabbath of Rest
The Sabbath, as a child...
We went to church. We came home. Life resumed as normal—except that we couldn't play with friends. We watched TV, we visited people. Honestly, it didn't feel all that different from any other day.
The Sabbath, my first Sunday at BYU...
I went to church. I came home, and—wow. People actually stayed in their church clothes all day. They were out on the grass, stretched across blankets, reading their scriptures. It seemed a little bizarre to me. Do I change out of my dress? Do I stay in it?
I still remember that first shock of difference. There was a peace in the air, a lightness that's hard to put into words. Even the laughter and conversation felt different. I felt uplifted. Many students chose not to do their homework on Sunday, trusting that God would honor their efforts as long as they'd done their best during the week.
The Sabbath, on my mission...
We brought people to church and poured ourselves into the needs of others. We covered classes when teachers were sick—nursery, Primary, Sunday school, Relief Society, wherever there was a gap, the missionaries filled it. Afterward, we visited and taught.
I remember sitting down to teach a woman in Chile who wasn't attending church. I will never forget her face. She looked utterly exhausted. Her small home overflowed with children from both her and her husband's previous marriages—she was outnumbered ten to one—and she was doing laundry on a Sunday.
So many times I've looked back and wished I had simply stopped teaching and picked up a dish to wash, or folded a load of laundry, or scrubbed the floor while we talked. As a young missionary with no children of my own, I couldn't relate to her.
The Sabbath, home from my mission...
I went to church. Sometimes I stayed in my dress all day, sometimes I changed. I visited the sick and the lonely. I saw family, read my scriptures, prayed, set goals, and tried my best to use the day to grow closer to the Lord.
The Sabbath, married with children...
We attend church, we share meals, we pray, we read scriptures. Some Sundays our home is clean and calm; others, it's a matter of pure survival.
Somewhere along the way, I started justifying cleaning on the Sabbath, because I told myself I could feel the Spirit better in a tidy house. Laundry needed doing. Floors needed mopping. I'd put on a devotional or some worship music and use the time to draw close to God while I worked.
And slowly, I began to become that woman from Chile. I was attending church more faithfully than she had been—but every time I loaded the washer on a Sunday, I thought of her. Oh, how I wished I had helped her fold her laundry.
Then came Shabbat...
I experienced Shabbat for the first time with my Messianic Jewish friends: the cleaning and cooking done before the Sabbath so the day itself could be rest, the gathering as a family, the praising of the Lord in song and dance, the covering of our heads, the lighting of the candles, the blessings the father and mother speak over the family and the children. It was magical. I experienced my second and third Shabbat in Israel, and I came home aching to create that same holiness in my own house.
And yet, I kept the same pattern...
I'd vacuum the floors, bracing for the judgment of my neighbors, turning the conference talks up loud to drown out the sound of my working. I'd apologize to my kids, tell them not to worry about chores and to focus on the Savior—then justify myself by insisting I could feel the Spirit better once things were clean.
Here's the problem with cleaning: I never stop. My house is never clean enough. When I have the strength, I am working, working, working. I gasp at toothpaste in the entryway. I shake my head at dust on the stairway. I cook, I clean, I cook, I clean—repeat, repeat, repeat. And I think of the Israelites, and how I might have been one of the ones stoned for working on the Sabbath... and then I tell myself I'm only "pulling the ox out of the mire." The Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath.
I am exhausted.
And I think again of that woman in Chile. She was a slave to her life, her children, her marriage—thin, poorly dressed, achingly beautiful, with eyes that held the weariness of someone running on no sleep, no nourishment, no joy, no rest. She worked and worked, hoping that one day she'd finally be caught up enough to rest.
"Who's your Daddy?"
A few days ago, I listened to a talk about breaking free from a slave mentality. It pointed back to the Israelites leaving Egypt. For four hundred years they had labored every single day—and once freed, they were commanded to rest on the seventh day. And they struggled with it. What were they even supposed to do with rest?
The message went on: God works to bring the slavery out of a person, and then that person works to bring the slavery out of themselves. The more we truly believe we are sons and daughters of the Most High God, the more we begin to care for ourselves and others the way princes and princesses do—not the way slaves do.
And I thought: what had become of me? Where was I in my own marriage? Who had I become? The maid? The servant? The family dog—valued only when I could be useful?
Marriage has been hard on me. Most of what I've lived through, I don't speak of. Months ago, I told my husband I felt like I only had worth if I could serve in some way. And so I cleaned, and cleaned, and cleaned. Nothing was ever good enough. Nothing was ever organized enough.
Then I stopped.
This morning, when I tried to make myself put the cleaning down, I panicked. How could I stop? My mind drifted back to that woman in Chile, and tears came. And for the first time in the eighteen years since my mission, I felt something new for her—not just regret, but gratitude. Grateful that we hadn't simply picked up her chores that day. Because what we did give her was this: we sat with her. We read to her from the scriptures. We encouraged her, prayed with her, held her hand, hugged her, and told her how amazing she was and how deeply God loved her. Only God truly knew her circumstances, but we spoke what came to our hearts.
We change the slave mentality by "acting the better part."
I think of Mary and Martha, who welcomed the Lord into their home. I want to be Mary, sitting at His feet. But so often I'm Martha—anxious, busy, making sure everyone else is comfortable. When Martha asked the Lord to send Mary to help her, He answered gently: "Mary hath chosen the better part."
Will my home ever be clean and organized enough? Will I ever feel the peace I so badly yearn for? I'm learning that I have to take the servant mentality out of myself first—and then my circumstances can change.
Learning a new dance
The changes in my life this past year came from a dance I finally chose to do differently. I felt the love of the Lord reach down through the voices of so many people, and this time I heard it: "It is enough." "You are loved." "God wants to be a lover to your soul." "You are My daughter. I care about you. I want you to feel safe, and loved, and protected."
When I heard those things, I was finally able to say, "Okay, Father. Teach me the dance steps."
Because when you learn to dance with a loving Father, you stop being content to dance with someone who hurts you and belittles you—someone who steps on your toes and moves against the rhythm. You begin to long to dance with One who holds you with dignity, who guides you so gently that a soft press of the hand is all you need to know which way to go. No yelling. No belittling. No fear. As you learn to dance with the Lord, you learn that you are worthy of a better dance.
Weeks ago, a friend came to talk with my husband and me about how things had changed, and how the abuse had stopped. He smiled, almost laughing with the joy of realizing it. "Can't you see it?" he said. "You made the decision for the abuse to stop—and then it did." (Sadly, the acting was temporary, and I eventually had no choice but to leave.)
What God taught me
God gently, patiently helped me to feel and know four things I now share with more and more people:
- I am His daughter, and He is my Father—and He is not okay with His daughters being abused in any way.
- God will prepare you to leave, if you need to. He will say, "Go now," or "It is time." I had to trust Him with all my heart to do it—just as the Israelites had to trust Him to leave Egypt. When God says leave, you go.
- God can heal even the ones who hurt us. Jonah did what God commanded and then resented God for sparing the very people who repented. I've felt like Jonah—obedient, but bitter instead of joyful. I've had to forgive.
- God can heal the victim, the slave, the captive heart. I know I'm still tangled in a slave mentality. So I'm going to flex my weak spiritual muscle and do something about it.
My commitment
I'll keep attending church. I'll keep serving in my calling, feeding my family, reading scripture, and praying. But I am committing to getting the slavery mentality out of my life for good. I'm going to accept God's invitation to make the Sabbath a "delight," to "keep it holy," and to break my addiction to working.
I can hardly focus on anything without a spotless home. I struggle to let anyone close when things aren't perfectly in order. I know this about myself—and I haven't been living any differently. But I need to clear the inner clutter: the chaos, the hurt, the things that feel broken. Meals can be made ahead. The house can be cleaned during the week. And when things get messy anyway, the most important thing is to quiet the chaos inside first—the outside will follow.
Be still, my soul.
And to that woman in Chile: I would ask you to love yourself enough to put the laundry down. Put down the broom, the rag, the soap, and let your soul find peace. Open the scriptures. Pray. Bring your children to church, no matter how impossible that feels, and let God work the "crazies" out of them—while you and He work the crazies out of you. I'll be right there working on the very same thing. Seriously—put down the broom and go grab your scriptures.
"Remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy... But the seventh day is the sabbath of the Lord thy God: in it thou shalt not do any work... For in six days the Lord made heaven and earth... and rested the seventh day: wherefore the Lord blessed the sabbath day, and hallowed it." — Exodus 20:8–11
"If thou turn away thy foot from the sabbath, from doing thy pleasure on my holy day; and call the sabbath a delight... then shalt thou delight thyself in the Lord." — Isaiah 58:13–14
"For the Son of man is Lord even of the sabbath day." — Matthew 12:8
Here's a little glimpse of my Prayer Corner. It's not quite a Prayer Room yet—but it's a start.
(The lines below are from a speaker I watched online. When I first wrote this post, I didn't note who said them—I remember rewinding the video over and over, but I never wrote down the source. If you recognize these words, please message me so I can give proper credit. — Steffi)
He is the first and the last, the beginning and the end. He's the keeper of creation. Always was, always is, and always will be—unmoved, unchanged, undefeated, and never undone... When you fall, He will lift you up. When you're afraid, He is your courage. When you're broken, He will mend you. That, sisters, is who you belong to.
With much love,
— Steffi
Comments