When To Stop

I recently had the privilege of attending the opening night of Brian Kershisnik's new exhibition at the BYU Museum of Art. As I wandered through the space, each piece vied for my attention, but none more powerfully than when to stop. This original oil painting depicts a man and his dog sitting at a table in an intensely red room. The man appears to be writing, perhaps a letter, when he is rudely interrupted—an angel hovers beside him, pressing a hand over his mouth, gently but firmly hushing him.

As someone who often finds herself “poking the bear” spiritually, it has been a struggle to know when it is time to let go. I’ve been guilty of gripping people, issues, and ideas with such intensity that, by the time I release them, they are drained of life and meaning. 

This habit seems to be a reaction to a deeper discomfort with uncertainty. I’m not entirely sure where it started—perhaps it’s simply that the unknown has always unsettled me. What I’ve come to realize is that this pattern is rooted in dwelling on the past and grasping for the future, but it seldom makes an appearance in the present moment.

I have a habit of carrying friendships and relationships past the point of their natural expiration, trying to squeeze every last drop out of them. And when things inevitably end, I revisit the grave so frequently that the grass over the coffin is worn to dirt. 

When sentimentality, or her evil stepsister nostalgia, comes calling, I especially find myself turning to divine guidance, almost begging on my hands and knees for things to be returned to their status quo or, at the very least, for some form of clarity.  

And when I look into the future, I see myself wrestling with God for gifts that were never meant for me. I pray for people, for jobs, for opportunities I know aren’t quite right—choosing to grip onto something over the uncertainty of nothing.

So, as I stood before when to stop, I was confronted with this very tendency.

Do I know when to stop?

In recent months, I’ve been learning a lot about the nature of God and the way He communicates with us. In my initial misunderstanding, I had simplified divine counsel into a single category: direct action. When I prayed, my questions always seemed to revolve around what I needed to do. What steps should I take to move forward? How can I make my life unfold with the least amount of resistance? And when I was met with silence from the heavens, my first assumption was that the silence was due to some failing on my part—either I was unworthy to receive an answer, or I was too distracted to hear it.

Recently, I have been coming into a transitional time of life. Graduation from BYU and the open unknown of my future lies before me, and I can feel the draw to my old habits of pounding away at God’s doors with my list of questions in hand. Like a kid pestering their parents on a long road trip, I, too, have pushed Heavenly Father for answers in moments when stillness was required. And here, in this painting, was a visual reminder.  

God’s nature is vast and incomprehensibly expansive, and yet His desire is for us to become like Him. We often associate certain traits with divinity—love, humility, kindness—those we most commonly speak about in relation to Christlike behavior. But what if every good characteristic, every virtue, is inherently godly? Not just the primary answers, but also awareness, bravery, patience, and even the ability to stop. In His infinite care, God isn’t just teaching me how to move forward; he is also teaching me how to pause. There is power in knowing when to step back, to let go, to simply be. This ability to stop is not a weakness, nor is it passivity. It is, in fact, a form of divine strength. 

I’ve seen this in action, though I didn’t recognize it at first. The most influential people in my life aren’t just those who constantly strive and push, but those who know when to step back. My mom has been my greatest teacher in this. She pours her heart into everything she does, yet when life delivers abrupt endings—as it often does—she meets them with grace and a rare kind of composure. Her ability to release what’s no longer meant for her stands in stark contrast to my own tendency to hold on too tight. 

I now believe that God’s silence, too, carries meaning. It’s not the absence of communication but an invitation to slow down, reflect, and let go of what we cling to. His guidance might not always be about the next step; sometimes it’s about stepping back and knowing when to stop. In doing so, we realign ourselves with His will, find rest in Him, and realize that not every battle is ours to fight, nor every problem ours to solve.