Oct 22 2019 Matthew 11: 25-30

Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.

Weary. That’s a good word. Rest. That’s a better one.

Yesterday, we returned from a quick weekend away. A trip we couldn’t have taken without angels who shared their home with us in Florence, and angels who shared our home in Portland. Deep, deep gratitude for both.



As we were driving back, I was noticing my increasingly heavy burdens. Our loved one was very anxious. They have refused continuation of the doctor prescribed medicine, in favor of self medication. Unfortunately, the medicine of choice has some immediate positive effects, but documented long term nasty effects on this illness. Our loved one was working themselves in to a lather, about needing their drug of choice.

On the drive, we spent about an hour on the phone with our loved one, and another 30 minutes with psychiatrists and counselors. With their scattered brain, it was difficult to assess what was really happening. But what was clear was they were scared, defeated, frustrated, tired of being sick and wanting someone to lift their heavy burdens. If only I could have.

By the time we arrived home, the counselor was with them, not wanting to leave her alone, for threats of jumping off our 25th floor balcony. Again, unlikely, but unnerving. We returned, there was some yelling, some negotiating, talk of involuntary hospitalization, but eventually, a blessed de-escalation.

This morning, my burdens feel heavy. But if I think of it, theirs are heavier. I’m not stuck with an addled brain. I’m not unable to work, to think clearly. I’m not scared or angry, without money or hope. I’m not being shuttled around between doctors and counselors who can’t seem to address any of that.

So quickly, I need to dispense with this being about me. Yes, my burdens are heavy. And yes, I can try again and again to share those burdens with Christ. I can find rest in Christ. I can hold those thoughts together. I deeply believe there is hope in Christ, and I can access that hope. Granted, some days better than others, but I am certain that hope is there if I can just get there. 

This morning, I’m thinking about my loved one who has a very heavy burden, and cannot hold it together to find rest in Christ. They cannot conceive of a God who will give them rest; the illness feels so much bigger than God’s love and grace. From where I sit, it feels almost true. Almost bigger. Almost too much. Certainly for my loved one, and by extension, for me.

We all carry burdens of our own, and we carry burdens on behalf or due to other people. Today, I want to keep my eyes focused on all of the burdens I carry. My grief, sadness, disappointment, dashed expectations. I want to be aware of those I carry on behalf of my loved one – grief, sadness, dissapointment, dashed expectations – plus feeling sick, confused, hopeless, abandoned. On behalf of both of us, I want to leave those with Christ, and find rest.

In my perfect world, I will find rest for me, and my loved one will find rest. And if that rest for them is currently illusive, I need to find a double measure of rest in my soul, and do everything I can to share Christ’s rest through me for my loved one. I need to find rest for our souls.