“You Carry My Bag?”

file0002140147781“Tall mocha,” the barista called. I reached for my coffee, hoping it would wake me, even just a little. I had been awake since midnight and now it was 5:30 a.m. My flight would leave in just thirty minutes.

As I turned from the Starbucks counter, I spotted the cutest, most pathetic thing I have ever seen. A very sleepy toddler boy stumbled behind his mom, all cozy in his fuzzy, fire truck footie jammies, a very full child sized backpack slung over his shoulders.

“Just a liiiiitle bit further,” his mom encouraged, but the poor guy just could not go on any longer. He collapsed to his knees and planted his face on the carpet.

“No more walk, Mom.” he moaned.

His mother knelt down beside him. “Ah, sweetie. You’re tired, aren’t you?”

“You carry my bag?” was his muffled reply.

“I’ll do more than that,” she answered, as she slipped off his backpack. “I’ll take your backpack, and I’ll carry you.” She swung the backpack onto her already weighted down shoulder and scooped up her son. He promptly snuggled his sleepy little head into the crook of her neck and lay limp in her arms.

And I smiled. A smile that felt warm in my chest. And suddenly, I felt just like that little boy. Relaxed. Cared for. Loved. Held.

I have a Father. A strong and gentle Father. He lets me carry my load when I think I’m big enough and strong enough, but He knows that I am not as strong as I think. And when I fall to my knees and press my nose into the carpet, begging Him to carry my load, He takes more than my burden. He scoops me up, holds me close, and carries me to the end.

Then I can relax and just let go, because I am cared for. Loved. Held. And that is a beautiful, beautiful thing.

Comments

  1. Dearest Brenda
    This is beautiful. Thank you!
    I enjoy your writing, I am always glad when I see your emails.
    SLS

Add a Comment

*