The One who carries the load, holds your hand
“It’s three months, and we’re all undone. I don’t know why it’s hitting us like this now, here.” I feel it, too; tears leaking, heart paining. “The one,” she nearly groans. “One gets up every morning and asks, ‘Is he coming back today?’”
It’s been three months since a third burial. Since hopes and dreams were lowered into earth, dirt raining down on a third child and son. Precious boy.
“I can’t pray. Can’t pray,” she says. My own throat is tight; I can scarcely speak, but I see. Oh, I can see. “People tell me, ‘You need to pray!’”
“Oh, don’t,” I murmur. “You don’t have to. For I see you, tired mother, and I see Him. And He’s carrying you. Rest. Just rest.”
It’s Saturday last. I’m up, alone. The family slumbers. House quiet, I steal outside, coffee in hand, for time with Him before I take to the road. The neighborhood is still. Birds sing, leaves stirring in a quiet breeze. Gazing across the vast back yard, my heart quiets, and I listen.
Listen and see. As though a movie reel is turning, I see a little girl, running, playing in the pasture sprawling past the big, red barn. Running, laughing with Elder Brother, Kinsman Redeemer, the Lord Christ.
Curls messy, small feet dusty, walking down a path together. One tiny hand tucked safely in a big strong one, it’s Jesus and me. Only now, He’s carrying a backpack.
I know that pack. It’s mine, and in it are tucked hopes and dreams; hopes, dreams, and the tools I need to do the work He’s called me to do. The work that’s become a burden. The work that’s cost blood, sweat, and tears. The work that demands near more than this girl can give right now; that’s overwhelmed me into paralysis, discouragement stealing in. That pack, with all its burdens, all its hopes, all its dreams…it’s on His back.
This morning, I know this – that Jesus carries, and Jesus saves. Whether it’s a tired, broken mama who cannot walk herself or a heavy pack too large for one small back, Jesus takes the burden.
Are you the tired and broken? Carrying a load that breaks the back? There’s this…I see Him. And you. You are loved. You are carried. You can rest, for He holds the burden, and He holds your hand.
Most warmly,
Rhonda