"She stiffens, steeling herself against the scorn she has learned to expect. As if she needed more shame. Stop him. But how? She awaits his judgement.
But it never comes. His voice is warm and his question honest. 'Will you give me your trash?'
Her head draws back. What can he mean?
'Give it to me. Tomorrow. At the landfill. Will you bring it?' He rubs a moist smudge from her cheek with his thumb and stands. 'Friday. The landfill.'
Long after he leaves, she sits, replaying the scene, retouching her cheek. His voice lingers; his invitation hovers. She tries to dismiss his words but can't. How could he know what he knew?
And how could he know and still be so kind? The memory sits on the couch of her soul, and uninvited but welcome guest.
That night's sleep brings her summer dreams. A young girl under blue skies and puffy clouds playing amid wildflowers, skirt twirling. she dreams of running with hands wide open, brushing the tops of sunflowers. She dreams of happy people filling a meadow with laughter and hope.
But when she wakes, the sky is dark, the clouds billowed, and the streets shadowed. At the foot of her bed lies her sack of trash. Hoisting it over her shoulder, she walks out of the apartment and down the stairs and onto the street, still slushy.
It's Friday.
For a time she stands, thinking. First wondering what he meant, then if he really meant it. She sighs. With hope just barely outweighing hopelessness, she turns toward the edge of town.
Others are walking in the same direction. The man beside her smells of alcohol. He's slept many nights in his suit. A teenage girl walks a few feet ahead. The woman of shame hurries to catch up. The girl volunteers an answer before the question can be asked: 'Rage. Rage at my father. Rage at my mother. I'm tired of anger. He said he'd take it.' She motions to the sack.
'I'm going to give it to him.'
The woman nods, and the two walk together."
Why does He want my trash so badly? Why does he want my reluctance, sorrow, pain, worry, grief, or anger? Why? Why me?
Max Lucado points out that God sees our burden and He wants it as well. He wants it. That is just completely crazy to me. Why would someone want to take on another's emotional and spiritual baggage? I'm sitting here thinking about it; and I've come up with nothing. Nothing. I guess the only answer that could possibly make sense is: He loves us. That's it. He loves us. That sentence alone blows my mind.
But it's not good to keep all those emotions bottled up inside of you. For me, I keep all those inside and then I blow up at the littlest thing that I get mad about. Giving them to Him seems to be a better option. But, we are human. We like to take care of things ourselves. We say things like "I can handle this" or "I'll take care of us" or we ask questions like "How am I going to get through this?" or "What am I going to do?" It's like we are taking care of everything instead of stepping aside and letting God work.
"Come to Me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls." --Matthew 11:28-29
That has been my theme verse for a few years now. I cannot explain how much comfort this verse brings me. This verse, along with others (Romans 8:28), I've been able to start working through the challenges that He has dealt me.
Until next chapter...
No comments:
Post a Comment