We realize that so much of what we carry, deem essential, and fight ourselves to hold onto means little when the treasures that hold us together risk falling apart.
I recently witnessed this in several different ways.
A businessman unraveling at work, not realizing his temporary actions would have a lasting impact on his family. He had worked to provide for his family, only to become so consumed by work that he nearly lost them. His firing ended up being a gift, even though it felt quite the opposite at the time.
A young adult doubting whether he should marry a woman he so desperately wants to save. In his desperation, he becomes a martyr, giving more and more of himself to something and someone he cannot fix, hoping devotion will do what wisdom will not.
An older woman who had spent her life being a wife and mother, only to find herself surrounded by memories and silence. Her once-busy days grew still, and her health deteriorated until she was ready to go home. With no one nearby to hold on to, she struggled to hold on to herself. Somewhere in all those years of caring for others, her own needs had become an afterthought. And when others leave, and you do not know how to love yourself properly, well … the silence has room to say some terribly unkind things.
A middle-aged man simply walking under the sun on an uncomplicated day has a heart attack. He finds himself tethered to machines, looking out a hospital window. The sun is still there, but now it feels as though it belongs to others. Perhaps he was only borrowing it … borrowing it all for a bit of time, until time threatened to stop.
An artist who painted his daydreams while the rest of his life went unanswered. With each blow, he chose the canvas over the call, the bill, the hard conversation. Inaction became his way of life, and he became like his art: lovely, yet painfully distant.
And then there’s me.
Perhaps I am a bit of these narratives, taking on so much, calmly directing and redirecting, that I fail to tend to the condition of my own mind, body, and spirit. I can keep things moving. I can find another way. I can make room for one more responsibility.
But somewhere in all that making room, I can lose my peace.
Life can become a reaction.
Living can become an exhausting pursuit of … what?
In Matthew 11:28–30, Jesus offers rest to the burdened. I wonder how often I postpone accepting that invitation until I have finished everything I think must come first.
When everything is done, there is little of me left.
What would happen if I put Jesus first in everything I did? Truly, everything?
Some things are ours to tend. Some belong in someone else’s hands. And some we have held onto so tightly, for so long, that we have mistaken the strain for purpose.
Being needed can feel reassuring, even while it wears us down.
Setting something down can feel like letting someone down.
So, we keep carrying it all, and call it love or responsibility.
Perhaps that is where we need to begin: with honest prayer.
Lord, help us evaluate what we are bringing into today from yesterday and what we are choosing to take on today. Reveal to us what You have entrusted to our care and what we have accepted out of fear, ego, or habit. Help us tend to the life You have given us so we can honor You, not just through what we believe we can accomplish or what we excel at, but through what You are actually asking of us and desiring for us. Amen.
I do not want to wait for a hospital window to remind me of the sun. I do not want to give the people I love so little of myself that someday I am left wondering where our time went.
Today, there is still time to rest in the Lord. To listen. To reflect. To praise. To act in faith.
In doing so, our grip will eventually loosen on what is temporary, and we will notice the hand of the One who has been holding us all along. Because, after all, what we carry means little when what holds us together starts to fall apart.
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