Laboring, Yet Starving

“Why do you spend your money for that which is not bread,
and your labor for that which does not satisfy?”
— Isaiah 55:2

For a long time, I did not consider what I was doing to be spiritually dangerous. It was creative. It was disciplined. It was intricate. In many ways, it was impressive. I was building a fictional universe—one that required careful attention, internal consistency, and an unusual degree of restraint. Nothing was accidental. Connections were subtle. Supernatural elements were intentionally understated. The goal was not spectacle, but implication—details that only a deeply attentive reader would notice.

And that was the problem.

I spent hours refining small things most people would never see: aligning timelines, planting narrative echoes, making sure a symbol appeared just enough times to register subconsciously across different books. I labored over nuance. I invested enormous mental energy into ensuring that, for a hypothetical die-hard reader, the universe would feel coherent, intentional, and quietly profound.

It took more out of me than I realized.

At first, it felt like dedication. Over time, it became consumption.

I would wake up with the sense that I should pray or read Scripture—but instead of lingering, I rushed. Devotion became something to get through so I could return to the work. Even rest was repurposed. I would ask an AI to generate character dossiers, scenes, or tonal sketches so I could listen to them as I drifted off to sleep, hoping they would spark more ideas. Nights that once ended with Scripture or sermons ended with fiction playing in the background.

I told myself it was harmless. I justified the sleep deprivation. Four hours is enough. Three hours is fine. I convinced myself that productivity was discipline, that intensity was commitment.

But I was tired in a way sleep didn’t fix.

Scripture names this condition without sensationalism. Isaiah does not rebuke the people for laboring. He asks why their labor does not feed them. The issue is not effort; it is misdirected nourishment.

The Bible consistently defines “bread” not by how much work goes into it, but by what it gives back. Bread sustains life. Bread restores strength. Bread does not demand constant maintenance just to keep existing.

Jesus makes this explicit:

“I am the bread of life: he that cometh to Me shall never hunger.”
— John 6:35

Somewhere along the way, my creative work stopped being something I did and became something I lived on. And it could not sustain me.

This is not a story about fiction being evil or imagination being wrong. Scripture does not condemn creativity. But it does warn against anything—even good, meaningful things—quietly taking the place of daily dependence on God.

That warning is echoed clearly in the writings of Ellen G. White:

“Satan is well pleased to have the mind occupied with anything that will keep it from dwelling upon God.”
— Steps to Christ, p. 71

Not wicked things.
Not obviously corrupt things.
Anything.

When work begins to crowd out prayer, when devotion is rushed to make room for projects, when rest is sacrificed on the altar of productivity, something has shifted. The work may still be complex, meaningful, even admirable—but it is no longer bread.

Ellen White also offers a caution that became especially relevant as I recognized what was happening:

“When the Lord points out our duty, He does not require us to go back and rehearse the past.”
— Testimonies for the Church, vol. 9

That counsel matters. This is not about cataloging every detail or reliving every choice. It is about recognizing a pattern and responding to it honestly.

Looking back, I can see that the universe I was building demanded constant mental residence. It needed to be guarded, maintained, revisited. It rewarded immersion, not rest. It trained my attention inward rather than upward. And even though it was carefully restrained and intentionally subtle, it still asked for more than it gave.

God did not confront me with accusation. He withdrew appetite.

The desire to continue faded. The reluctance to invest more time or energy grew. What once felt compelling began to feel heavy. That loss of appetite was not failure—it was mercy.

Scripture allows us to stop.

“Except the Lord build the house, they labor in vain that build it.”
— Psalms 127:1

Not all labor that is sincere is meant to be sustained indefinitely. Not all projects that once served a purpose are meant to become permanent dwellings.

I had to relearn something simple: sleep is not negotiable. Prayer is not a formality. Scripture is not a hurdle to clear before “real” work begins. The things that edify, restore, and anchor us are not optional add-ons; they are the bread itself.

Isaiah 55 does not call us to stop laboring. It calls us to stop trying to live on what cannot sustain life.

Sometimes obedience looks like release.
Sometimes faithfulness looks like stopping.
And sometimes the most spiritual thing a person can do is let a good thing die so that something living can take its place.

That, too, is grace.