Early mornings in our house are rarely quiet. With five kids, the hallway is usually a runway of misplaced socks, half-finished homework, and voices competing to be heard. But there’s a brief window—maybe ten minutes right at dawn—where the house is still. I stand in front of the small bathroom mirror, running the hot tap until steam begins to cloud the glass.
I’m holding an old safety razor. It’s a heavy piece of chrome, nothing like the plastic multi-blade cartridges they advertise on television. It requires respect. If you rush with a tool like this, you pay for it in blood. Literally. I learned that the hard way when I first started using it, thinking I could speed through my morning routine the way I used to tear through a framing job. Does your morning feel like a race you’ve already lost before you even put your boots on? I know mine often does. We live in a world that demands speed, but some things—some very good things—simply cannot be hurried.
The Cadence of the Blade
For twenty years, I worked on construction sites. I’ve framed walls, hung drywall, and trimmed out doors. In the trades, you learn quickly that there’s a difference between working efficiently and rushing. Rushing is born of anxiety. It’s the feeling that there’s not enough time, that you’re falling behind, that your worth is tied to how fast you can produce. But when you rush a cut with a circular saw, you bind the blade. When you rush a measurement, you waste material. In the end, the rushed job takes twice as long because you have to tear it out and start over.
Shaving is no different. The razor requires a steady hand, a specific angle, and a light touch. You can’t push the blade into your skin; you have to let the weight of the tool do the work. If you pull it too fast, it drags, cuts, and leaves a burning rash that stings for the rest of the day. It forces you to slow down. It forces you to look at your own reflection and pay attention to what you’re doing in the present moment.
In a life that feels like it’s constantly accelerating, this ten-minute routine has become a small sanctuary. It’s a daily reminder that patience is not just a virtue we hope to possess someday; it’s a muscle we have to build in the quiet, mundane moments of our ordinary days. If I can’t show patience to my own face in the mirror at six in the morning, how can I expect to show it to my children when the house wakes up and the noise begins?
A Slowing of the Spirit
There’s a verse in the book of James that I keep returning to, especially on the days when my patience feels thin. The writer says:
So then, my beloved brothers, let every man be swift to hear, slow to speak, and slow to anger.
— James 1:19
I find it interesting that James connects these three things. Being swift to hear requires us to be slow in our actions. You can’t truly listen to someone if your mind is already racing ahead to the next task, or if you’re mentally composing your response. To listen well is to slow down. To speak slowly is to give the Holy Spirit room to guide our words. And to be slow to anger is the natural byproduct of a soul that has learned to breathe, to wait, and to trust that God is in control.
But how do we become that kind of slow? I don’t think we get there by wishing for it. I think we get there by practicing slowness in the physical world. Our hands and our hearts are connected. When we force our hands to move slowly—whether we’re shaving, folding laundry, washing a coffee mug, or listening to a child tell a long, winding story—we’re training our spirits to quiet down. We’re telling our anxious minds that the world won’t stop spinning if we take a breath.
If you’ve struggled with feeling hurried, please know you’re not alone. I’m far from perfect at this. Just yesterday, I found myself snapping at one of my boys because I was trying to reply to an email while he was asking me about his bike tire. I was rushing. My hands were moving too fast, my mind was split, and my speech was anything but slow. It’s a daily practice, and most days I have to start over more than once.
Facing the Reflection
There’s another aspect to this quiet morning ritual. When you shave, you have to look yourself in the eyes. You see the gray hairs creeping into the sideburns, the lines around the eyes from years of squinting at blueprints, and the marks of time and worry. It’s easy to look in the mirror and only see the flaws, or to feel a quiet regret for the years that are slipping by.
Patience in self-care means being patient with our own aging, our own limitations, and our own progress. We’re all works in progress. God is not finished with us yet. When we look in the mirror, we’re looking at someone Jesus loves, someone He died for, and someone He is gently reforming day by day. We can afford to be kind to the face looking back at us.
Peace begins with a smile.
— Mother Teresa
I’ve written before on Authentic.how about the importance of finding peace in the middle of our chaotic schedules. Sometimes, that peace is not found by escaping our daily responsibilities, but by stepping fully into them with slow hands. When we wash the dishes, we can just wash the dishes. When we shave, we can just shave. In doing so, we turn a mundane chore into an act of gratitude, offering the simple moments of our day back to the One who gave them to us.
Practicing the Slow Routine
If you want to join me in slowing down this week, here are a few simple invitations to bring some patience into your physical routine:
- Choose one daily task: Pick something simple that you usually rush through—brushing your teeth, making your bed, or pouring your morning coffee.
- Do it at half-speed: Consciously force your hands to move slower than normal. Pay attention to the texture of the soap, the warmth of the water, or the aroma of the coffee.
- Breathe and pray: As you perform this slow task, use it as a trigger to breathe deeply and say a quiet prayer of thanks. You might say, “Lord, thank You for this day. Help me to walk in Your peace.”
- Listen before you respond: When a family member or coworker speaks to you, take a full breath before you reply. Let there be a moment of quiet space between their words and yours.
A Moment for Reflection
Tomorrow morning, when you stand before the mirror, take a second to look at your reflection. Before you pick up the razor, the brush, or the comb, take one deep breath. Remind yourself that you don’t have to earn your worth by running a race today. You are already loved, exactly as you are, in this very room.
Let the hands move slowly. The rest of the day will wait.
You are loved.
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