"Three months." That's what she says today, tears leaking. I listen, coffee steaming in the mug like prayers rising.
"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.