Tag: tired

Lay Your Burden Down.

"self-portrait"

Does this look like a helpless ass, to you? To be honest, it looks like me.

Today, I had an insightful time of devotional reading and prayer. I was convicted to lay my burdens down. I hadn’t properly realized how heavy my load of worries has been.

After I gave them to God to carry, I noticed how exhausting it has been to leverage them. My epiphany: I can be inadvertently as stubborn and pathetic as an overburdened ass, to the point where my load masters me.

Maybe you need to find some relief too.

There are about 20 days until Easter (Resurrection Sunday). The time is ripe to take a potent inventory of your worries, sins, and burdens. You are tired. You are more tired than you know. Don’t be stubborn, like me. Relent and give up your load.

Be encouraged–right now as you read this–to really take a two or three minutes to be aware of the weight and hardship of your current load.

For a minute, picture all of that as a huge backpack or bundle (see photo below for visual inspiration). Ask yourself: What are my burdens? Ask: Why am I carrying them so long?

Do you want relief?

female porter sherpa, mountain climbing

Accept God’s relief.

Now, put down your load. Put it all the way down. Try to stay with that visual image, and pray about it. What would you like to tell God?
What have you sensed in this short time of thinking about it?
And, what, if anything, is God prompting you to do?

Will you follow your savior up the mountain, and give up your load?

God’s strength and forgiveness is critical for us to recognize and accept. It is our saving grace. What a cathartic gift it is to lay our burdens down. Remember the joy of your salvation today.

Today’s verse for prayer reflection:
Matthew 11:28 Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. -Jesus, the Christ

 

Feel free to share your thoughts, insights, reflections, random comments, or silly observations. We’re in this together. May your day be blessed.

 

Shame and wanting to poking out your own eye

There’s a feeling you can get, after you’ve done something horrible. It’s so bad, that you might consider poking your own eye out (if for nothing else than a viable distraction.)

My first job (besides babysitting) was as a hostess at Eat’n Park Family Restaurant. A woman about 10  years older transferred there. She had been a waitress for a long time (even a decorated one. Yes, Eat’n Park is special like that.) She also had the name “Lisa,” just like me. That’s about all the ingredients needed for good communication and lasting friendship, right? um. No.
Background:
Sometimes I’d goof off and crack jokes in passing with Lisa. No big deal. (If you know me, this is all highly typical behavior.)
WELL-
One day, like a stoke of non genius, it came into my head to wisecrack when I noticed Lisa had a blue pen scribble on her forearm. I noticed it was actually a very sloppily rendered mark of her own name. The “L” was super long on the bottom, and not in a cursive way. It was just odd. It struck me as humorous. I already knew she had a 4 year old daughter. Her little girl had probably been playing with her waitressing pen and wrote out her mom’s name all by herself. Or maybe Lisa had done it–for a joke, or because she was bored. So, feeling my comic Einstein vibe coming on me (which is inversely proportionate to my rational thought and good judgment), I said–rather flippantly, I might ad–“Hey, what’s that on your arm? Is that so you don’t forget your name?”

Sudden. Dead. Powerful stare.
Awkward pause. I could hear a spider near the salad bar blink.
Then I noticed she had a sort of sad “How could you, you freaking jerk?” look on her tired face. (I picked up on that because I’m really good at feeling people out!)
It was a tattoo.
A horrible one.
A mistake.
Perhaps a drunk boyfriend or trashed stepdad scrawled it there. Who knows. But whatever the story was, it was part of a painful past. A past she did not want thrown in her face by some stupid and insensitive quip from a dumb teenager.
My heart froze with panic. It’s the kind of panic where you start to smell yourself. A cold sweat mustache erupts on your lip usually, too
.
Would she stab me with a steak knife?
Plan to burn me “accidentally” with a scrod entrée platter? (Wicked hot, they are!)
I fumbled around, and got out, “um… hahah… I’m just kidding.” I was trying desperately to appear nonchalant. I considered whistling a tune to prove it.
Still, she just looked at me–steadily.
“I’m sorry,” I said, getting up the nerve. It felt like a blanket of shame washed over me. Self-loathing–all over the place.
She shook it off, and went back to work. From then on I tried to be extraordinary nice to her, in every way I could think of. I bused her tables, and got her refreshing beverages, and tried to be as pleasant, and positive as I could. She didn’t hold it against me, beyond a day or so.
Once, after a 10p.m.-5 a.m. shift when my dad failed to pick me up, she even drove me home in her weary beater of a car.
I still wonder about her.
It was poke-your-eye-out shame.
I’ll never forget it.

Have you ever had “inner death by shame”? (you can just answer yes or no, unless you want to be brave and tell your story)