There’s a catch to the idea of laying my burden of carefulness at the feet of God. Here it is:
It’s a bloody big burden at times.
There are times when the burden of what we experience is carried lightly. It rides in our bones rather than on our backs and it’s easy to let go of, easy to discard. There are times, though, that the burden we carry is so heavy, so cumbersome, that the idea of putting it down fills us with fear: not only because the logistics of safely lowering it are frighteningly inconceivable, but because we have forgotten how to stand straight without it. We have forgotten how it feels to be a person, to stand simply and alone, unburdened. The idea of that is even just a little bit frightening.
Here’s the thing: some of what I know I need to let go of – what I want to let go of – runs deep. Impossibly deep. These experiences, these humiliations and fears and angers, and points of pride and shame, aren’t just things I carry on the surface. After the better part of ten years of abuse and violence, and shame and anger and humiliation and fear, they are twisted right down through layers of being to the depths of soul: how can I possibly excavate them to be able to lay them down at the (metaphorical) feet of the most Compassionate One?
But here’s what I’ve decided. I don’t have to. I need to. I want to – but there’s no pressure. I can’t do it all at once. And I don’t have to. The Creator which unfolded the continents over billions of years can wait a few months more. The Source of love loves me anyway. The Ground of life continues to infuse me with blessings I could never have imagined. The crucified, betrayed, vulnerable, tortured Creator of the Universe keeps right on healing me even as I struggle to heal myself. All I do, I do within the Force of love, and life, and being. I think I’ll be ok.