By Troy Fitzgerald | FāVS News Columnist
This column first appeared in The Wenatchee World.
The views expressed in this opinion column are those of the author. They do not necessarily reflect the views of FāVS News.
In March 1990, The Seattle Times told the story of an 8-month-old basset hound named Tattoo. His leash was accidentally caught in a car door, and he was dragged for more than a mile at speeds of 20 to 25 mph before a motorcycle officer stopped the vehicle. Remarkably, the dog survived with few injuries. But he was exhausted.
It is difficult to read that story without feeling its strain. The image of being pulled along, unable to stop, moving faster than your own strength can carry you, stays in the mind. Many people would not describe their work life in such dramatic terms, yet the feeling is not entirely foreign.
Recent research from the American Psychological Association reports that 77% of Americans feel stressed at work, and more than half show signs of burnout, including exhaustion and thoughts of quitting.
Many live with a steady pressure to keep up. We speak of mindfulness and slowing down. Scripture uses a simpler word. To cease. To stop. Work has a way of showing us what we believe about our lives.
I never had a hamster with one of those wire wheels that makes it run in circles. My parents did not allow rodents as pets. Still, I have seen them in cages, small animals that gather and store with focus, then climb onto a wheel and run without going anywhere. Nothing grows. Nothing moves forward. It is motion without progress.
Do you ever feel like a hamster on the wheel?
We wake up, go to work, answer messages, solve problems, and do it again the next day. The weeks pass quickly. We stay productive and dependable. We show up. Yet under the steady rhythm of work, a quieter question begins to rise. What am I really doing?
There is virtue in repetition. Athletes build strength through repeated drills. Musicians improve through practice. Skills grow through habit. Repetition forms us. But even in athletics, there is a timeout. In music, there is a rest. Without pause, repetition loses its power. It begins to drain rather than build.
Many of our weaknesses begin as strengths. The person who seems controlling may have learned that stepping forward solves problems. The initiative worked. Results followed. Over time, that same strength can become too strong. It can crowd out other voices.
The person who seems overly compliant may have learned that listening preserves relationships. Keep the peace. Yet that strength can also grow too far, until it hides conviction and mutes needed words.
Scripture holds strength and humility together. “Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go” (Joshua 1:9). Work asks for courage. But Scripture also says, “The way of fools seems right to them, but the wise listen to advice” (Proverbs 12:15). And again, “Do nothing out of selfish ambition. In humility value others above yourselves” (Philippians 2:3–4). Courage without listening becomes harsh. Humility without courage becomes silence.
Work brings these patterns into the open. The “great worker” responds to pressure with even more effort. The cautious worker responds to pressure with greater restraint. Both responses make sense. Both need order. What begins as diligence can turn into a constant striving. What begins as gentleness can turn into withdrawal. So, we get it: balance is good.
I often think of tuning a guitar. When I tighten a string, the note rises. When I loosen it, the note falls. The goal is not to remove tension but to set it within a healthy range. Too tight and the string strains. Too loose and the sound fades. A well-tuned instrument does not shout. It simply holds its note.
Work requires the same care. God does not ask for endless motion. He models rhythm. “God rested on the seventh day from all his work” (Genesis 2:2). Jesus says, “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28). Rest does not weaken work. It protects it. It keeps us from being dragged by forces we no longer control.
When life begins to feel like that dog pulled along behind the car, we may not need to abandon work. We may need to stop long enough to regain our footing. When the days feel like a wheel that spins without progress, we may need to adjust the tension. Not less purpose, but better order. Not more effort, but wiser rhythm.
Our work does matter. Your strength matters. Your carefulness matters. So does your willingness to cease. Somewhere between relentless motion and quiet retreat there is a steadier way to live and labor. It works with purpose, and it rests with trust.
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