The Ruthless Elimination of Hurry

I was scrolling through an airport bookstore at 6 AM, bleary-eyed and already dreading the chaos of my upcoming week. Between the noise-canceling headphones and the "productivity hacks" lining the shelves, my soul felt thin—stretched like too little butter over too much bread. Then I saw it: The Ruthless Elimination of Hurry, the title like a punch to the gut. The audacity of those words stopped me mid-stride. Eliminate hurry? I scoffed. As if. But something in me cracked open. I bought it out of spite. By takeoff, I was undone.  

Here’s what shattered me:  

 1. Hurry Is the Enemy of Love  

Comer doesn’t tiptoe: "You cannot love people in a hurry." The sentence landed like an indictment. I thought of all the times I’d rushed through conversations, my body present but my mind already three steps ahead. The book calls hurry "the great enemy of spiritual life"—not because busyness is sinful, but because it makes us unable to receive the sacred in the ordinary. That text from a hurting friend I replied to distractedly? The sunset I missed because I was speed-walking? Casualties of hurry. Now I leave margins in my calendar labeled "Nothing"—space to actually see people.  

 2. Silence Is Not Empty—It’s a Power Source  

The chapter on silence wrecked me. Comer insists that "silence is to the soul what sleep is to the body." Me? I’d treated silence like a void to be filled—podcasts in the shower, music while cooking, screens until my eyelids drooped. But when I tried sitting in actual quiet for ten minutes (per the book’s challenge), it felt like coming up for air I didn’t know I’d been deprived of. The noise wasn’t just in my earbuds; it was in my bones. Now, my phone stays in another room until breakfast is over. The world hasn’t collapsed. But my soul has expanded.  

 3. The Tyranny of the Urgent Is a Lie  

"You will never ‘catch up.’" Comer’s words freed me from a lifelong delusion. I’d treated my to-do list like a moral obligation, as if completing tasks would finally make me enough. But the book exposes hurry as "a form of violence against the self"—a never-ending game where the finish line keeps moving. So I did the unthinkable: I deleted my productivity apps. Turns out, most "emergencies" aren’t. The emails can wait. The world keeps spinning. And I? I’ve started breathing between sentences.  

 4. Sabbath Isn’t a Day—It’s a Rebellion  

When Comer called Sabbath "a weekly act of resistance against the culture of more," something primal stirred in me. I’d treated rest like a luxury for the unambitious. But the book reframes it as "a declaration that our worth isn’t tied to our output." So I tried it: one full day without work, without "just checking" emails, without the itch to optimize. At first, I panicked. By afternoon, I noticed the way light pooled on the floorboards. By evening, I remembered what it felt like to be alive instead of efficient.  

 5. Your Phone Is a Slot Machine (Treat It Like One)  

The book’s tech critique hit hardest: "Your smartphone is the modern-day equivalent of a casino in your pocket." I laughed—then checked my screen time report and wanted to vomit. Comer doesn’t preach abstinence but "wisdom": turning off notifications, leaving it behind for meals, refusing to let algorithms hijack my attention. I bought an alarm clock. My phone now lives in a drawer after 8 PM. The first night, I dreamt vividly for the first time in years.  

This book didn’t just change my habits. It changed my wanting. I still fail constantly. But now, when I feel the familiar tug of hurry—the clenched jaw, the multitasking, the "I’ll rest when I’m dead" lie—I hear Comer’s voice:  

"The solution to an overbusy life is not more time. It’s a quieter, slower heart."  

And so I stop. I breathe. I let the world spin without my white-knuckled grip.  

Turns out, the best things in life aren’t efficient.  

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