Burden of Light

   "Then Jesus said, "Come to Me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you. Let Me teach you, because I am humble and gentle at heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For My yoke is easy to bear, and the burden I give you is light."" Matthew 11:28-30

  It's been a while since this verse crossed my path. I always imagine the burden of light as a gleaming sun. The kind of sun that glows gold after a storm and rays like holy swords pierce the clouds, bathing the earth below in brilliance. The light of the sun is a beautiful thing, weightless, yet powerful enough to traverse galaxies.

  Light doesn't weigh a thing. It can't be captured and put on scales. You can't feel it pushing you down. The only sign the sun has touched you is a warming of the shoulders, and perhaps the need to squint when it gets too bright.

  Winter seems to have been especially long and gray this year. March will begin to reveal glimpses of spring in a burst of brilliant warmth. Enough to have you standing in the driveway after coming back from shopping, grocery bags in hand, eyes closed and face turned upwards. The sunlight infuses a hope that winter is nearly over.

  Then it snows. Again. But that's March. She's a tease.

  So this morning I stand here, grocery bags in hand, and I look to Jesus. I am trying to understand what it means to surrender. Even thought the actual word, "surrender" doesn't appear in Scripture, the essence of it is captured in the idea of submitting or giving yourself to God.

  Or maybe I am overthinking this.

  Is it really as simple as putting down the grocery bags once and for all? Or better yet, give them to Jesus to carry?

  I suppose I have equated the idea of surrender as being defeated. Of living under an oppressor because that's the way of the world. The way I am most familiar with. The kind of surrender that enabled me to survive. 

  Maybe, (smile), I might have to surrender understanding the nature of Divine surrender because it is truly unfathomable. 

  Years ago, I was at a conference and they paired us up to do the falling back exercise where you are supposed to trust the person behind to catch you. They were a stranger so naturally, I could not do it. 

  Maybe another synonym for surrender is trust.

  And maybe that's what I am being called into; a deeper, fathomless, unrestricted, unbroken trust in the One who saved me. A trust that spans every moment of every day, not just the art or writing sessions. A trust that means I know one hundred percent He will catch me when I fall or better yet, carry the heavy bags or do something as small as untangle a gold chain.

  He will catch me when I fall back into old habits. He will catch me when the anxiety is too much to bear. He will catch me when a trigger sends me retreating from everyone. He will catch me when my poor, injured brain short circuits.

  You know why I know this?

  He already has. He always has. 

  Surrender to His perfect love is not about surviving, not when the Light of the World turns His face upon you. 

  So here I stand, grocery bags in hand, eyes closed, basking in a Light words cannot describe.

  The bags can be unpacked another day. I'll need help for that. Or maybe I will just give them to God because, in the end, what's inside doesn't really matter. At all...

  Yah. There's no maybe about it. Here You are, dear Lord. You can have them.

  

 

The Chain

   "The paths of the Lord are true and right, and righteous people live by walking in them." Hosea 14:9

  My friend left a gold necklace on the table this morning. It had a knot in the chain. Untangling chains has been a task I derive great pleasure from and it's never been any trouble.

  Out came the curved, needle nose pliers and a tapestry needle that makes it easy to manipulate fine chain. A half hour later, the knot remained, stubborn and determined to be unfixable. I tried breaking it, knowing it was easy to fix a break, but it stubbornly remained a well made chain.

  Rather than get frustrated, I decided to take a break. Time was running short anyways because we were going to a celebration of life for a friend's mom. 

  The knotted chain was set down on an envelope so it wouldn't get misplaced. The pliers and needle were left on the table beside it so they would be handy for the next attempt.

  When I came out of the shower, my friend thanked me profusely for untangling the chain of one of her favorite necklaces. 

  Let's just say I was stunned. 

  I had not untangled the chain. The knot had been clearly visible against the white envelope when I had placed it there. 

  I had to look at the chain to make sure there wasn't some sort of mistake.

  It was in perfect condition.

  My eyes were as wide as saucers because I had to admit it hadn't been me. Not one bit.

  In a half joking manner, as my brain tried to make sense of it all, I said to her, "Maybe...just maybe...God sent His angels to look after it while I was showering."

  Maybe He did.

  There was a large gathering at the church for a woman who was clearly and dearly loved. While the pastor spoke, I heard another Voice.

  "What happened with the chain this morning is what it means to surrender."

  Tears came to my eyes because I finally understood a crucial part of my faith. As much as I have surrendered to God through the art and writing, it has always been about my need and drive to untangle the knotted chains of my life.

  Not that any of it has been a waste or wrong. The hours spent in His presence have built a foundation of trust in a God who has been with me, led me, and held me through it all. 

  But it's time to fully surrender to a love I cannot fathom; the kind of love that will repair a knotted chain.

  Because He can.

  He really and truly can.

  

Aftermath

   "Those who live in the shelter of the Most High will find rest in the shadow of the Almighty." Psalm 91:1

  Lord, I need Your rest. I need Your shadow. I got poked by the umbrella.

  Panic attacks are extremely unpleasant. The shaking, the tears, the gasping for air, the nerve ends firing like fireworks...Every single sense engages RED ALERT MODE. The smallest of noises are amplified a thousand fold. The tiniest of motions has you scanning the surroundings like a zebra looking out for lions. 

  It's primal. 

  

  I had to leave work. 

  One good thing about this is I finally understand what has been triggering these regularly occurring panic attacks.. 

  It's having to take part in a large, virtual meetings.

  It's not the meeting in and of itself. It's the constant motion on screen, the random changing of the image without doing it yourself and being prepared for the change. It's how it changes every time someone new speaks. It's watching a dozen or more people move about in a confined area.

  

  Part of PTSD is a constant monitoring of the environment. Everyone does it. It's part of our wiring but in my case, the wiring has been heightened. So every time the image changes or there's a movement, I do a full on, yet subconscious, threat assessment.

  Until the assessment system gets overloaded and simply sends out the signal to RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!!!! IT'S ALL LIONS OUT THERE! 

  And because there isn't really a threat, I end up a blubbering mess. 

  Primal brain can't understand logic.

  I am grateful to finally understand why these attacks have been happening on a regular basis. It means it's possible to come up with a strategy. 

  For now, I am home where it is safe, sipping a cup of Zen tea. Even though it happened a couple of hours ago, the nerves are still firing with a zinging feeling that travels up and down the ole body. It will take time to calm Primal down. Sometimes it takes a couple of days.

  

  A hot bath is in order.

  Writing helps, too.

  

Framework

   "I know the Lord is always with me. I will not be shaken, for He is right beside me. No wonder my heart is glad and I rejoice. My body rests in safety. For You will not leave my soul among the dead or allow Your holy one to rot in the grave. You will show me the way of life; granting me the joy of Your presence and the pleasures of living with You forever." Psalm 16:8-11

  Sometimes when you share things, other things rise up between the words, between the emotions, between the ideas. Good things. God things.

  I was sharing about the umbrella, the image of the bare ribs and handle I wrote about yesterday. I shared about how necessity taught me I had to make my own protection, my own comfort, my own safety. As I spoke of these things I realized there is far more to the framework than the grief it initially generated. 

  

  We also talked about the idea of being a victim, about living in the past and being trapped by it. I said that I don't live in the past, the past lives in me. It's why I need meds. It's why I live with CPTSD. It's why I get overwhelmed easily. It's why I retreat into smallness sometimes. Not by choice, but because it simply happens.

  It's all related to the framework of my life's experiences.

  But the Lord had more to say about it when the conversation was over. He made me smile.

  This same framework is also why I am the way I am...in good ways. In ways to be grateful for. 

  Fear of abandonment instilled a fearless curiosity to try new things, or learn new skills. Perhaps to prove my worth. Perhaps it was because I wanted to earn my keep. The why isn't important. The end result is unusual abilities that are far outside of the gender framework I was born into.

  It fills me with gratitude for not having the support I needed because of all the skills I now have. 

  In all the years of eggshell walking because of the need to anticipate, placate, or keep the peace, I learned to see the smallest sign when someone is hurting. It means being able to come alongside them so they don't feel so alone. I know what that feels like. I know what it looks like. I've seen it in the mirror often enough.

  In the Great Alone, I learned to create: to play music from the heart, to draw, to paint, to write, to knit, to sew, to build things. Most importantly, when I was literally on my own, I learned to pray using all of it. I learned to trust that God will get me through regardless of how painful the path might be.

  If I don't speak the language of relationship very well, it's good to feel assured that one day I will. 

  My life is being built around a new framework, a better one. Like any skill, it takes time to master. It takes practice and often a complete do-over.

  That's okay. 

  God has placed good people, trustworthy people in my life who will support my tentative efforts at living differently, living better. 

  To God be the glory! AMEN!

  

The Retreating

   "Now let Your unfailing love comfort me, just as You promised me, Your servant. Surround me with Your tender mercies so I may live, for Your instructions are my delight." Psalm 119:76-77

  There's this thing I do whenever my emotions run deep and high. I withdraw, retreat, into a profound silence that echoes with the memories of a solitary life. I don't always know what triggers the retreat. It could be something as simple as the scent of a man's aftershave, a touch, a look, that kicks this primal response into full gear.

  I guess it's a legacy of having to live small to survive.

  I don't speak the language of connection very well. How could I? I never learned how.

  While praying through art today, I came across the image of an umbrella. It was just the skeleton: bowed ribs and a handle. The protective fabric was missing. As far as its ability to protect you from the elements, it was utterly useless.

  As I pondered this, it helped me understand that my childhood had been lived within the framework of family and home that, based on all external appearances, was as it should be. I had a roof over my head, piano lessons, schooling, food on the table. But this framework was just a skeleton that required me to add my own layers of protection.

  The lessons learned in childhood were honed to perfection in a marriage that also was nothing but a skeleton of appearance. It was not safe. Not for me. Not for my children. I did my best to be the fabric of protection while wrapping myself in the fabric of smallness. Just to survive.

  In all of this there was no room for fears, or questions, or discussion. There was no room for emotions or needs or desires. To have any was a punishable offence.

  One spring morning on the farm, my ankle got pinned between the barn wall and a two hundred pound sow. It was because of my ex's careless handling of the animal. I thought it was broken.

  The hospital wrapped my ankle in white athletic tape so I could leave. The x-ray results weren't available until the next morning. When I found out I needed a cast, my ex's angry response was, "What am I supposed to do about it?" A cast meant I could not do barn chores.

  The sad but funny thing is I didn't know I was allergic to athletic tape. When the nurse peeled it off, I had a rash from mid calf to the ball of my foot. It had been driving me crazy with the itching but I never said a thing to anyone. It was bad enough being injured and not being able to fulfill my responsibilities.

  The nurse was horrified and told me I should have taken the tape off! 

  In the end, it was just a bone chip, albeit a very painful one. While a cast would have made me more comfortable, I opted to simply wrap my ankle with elastic because the chores were more important...appeasing my husband even more so.

  There's something terribly wrong with this picture. Part of me knew it then. I definitely know it now. I just wish these lessons would get unlearned because it impacts my ability to trust others with my needs. And the great retreat remains my first go to. 

  It will take time to break the habits of a lifetime and I am getting better at it. But it's awfully hard to over-ride the survival mechanisms that are so automatic, I don't even realize it's happening.

  Lord, help me do better. In Jesus name I pray. AMEN!

  

  

  

  

  

The Critic

   "The mouth of the godly person gives wise advice, but the tongue that deceives will be cut off." Proverbs 10:31

  It's time to cut a tongue off. More than one, actually. They are the tongues that sing the songs of destruction. Their lyrics mock and belittle. Discordant harmonies serve one purpose: to make you afraid.

  As I sat in church, I started drawing measuring tools. A ruler, triangles, a set square and anything else I could think of at the time. 

  A tape measure was drawn as though the case was far away. The metal measuring part stretched back across the page, growing smaller and smaller as the rules of perspective were honoured. It was as though time was also being measured.

  Then I realized the tape measure wasn't mine. It belongs to those who taught me I could never measure up or be good enough. It's the tape measure that taught me I could never measure up or be good enough as a child, a daughter, a teen, a wife, and a woman. 

  Perversely, it also taught me not to be too good at anything because why would I even try to be the best? It was never enough. 

  The voice of the destroyer has a familiar sound. How could it be otherwise? It's the compounded voice of the one who raised me, who was a sibling, who was a spouse, a teacher, a culture, a gender expectation. And sadly, it is also my own. How could it be otherwise? 

  I never knew anything better.

  Even when the Lord set me free, their voices continue to be at war with the truth God was trying to have me believe.

  Today is the day these voices will be cut off, their tongue silenced. The only way to do this is to choose to forgive the critics, the judges, the cruel tongues whose voices echo across the years. So I will choose to forgive them. 

  I can thank the Lord for helping me find compassion for them. Their world is an ugly place.

  Then there's the hard part. Lord forgive me for allowing the critic's voice to become my own.

  He reminded me of my once four year old son and a little girl I was babysitting. The two of them were squishing grapes into the carpet, utterly silent, utterly enthralled by it.

  I've realized watching grapes explode was exactly the same as my sugar melting cereal bowl. I reacted just as my mother had with a cross "What were you thinking?" Forgive me Lord, for that.

  But then, when this same son wrote, "Welcome home, mommy, I love you" on the wall by the front door, I didn't get mad about it. How could I? We did have a chat about the wall not being the best place to write notes on. 

  Thank You, Lord, for forgiving me, for Your patience.

 It's time to put the tape measure that was never Yours back in the box. 

  I want to do better. I want to celebrate the giftings You blessed me with without shame or guilt or deception. But most of all, I want to learn to protect and nurture them without shame or guilt or deception.

  I want to live as the woman You created me to be and celebrate all You have made.

  Lord, hear my prayer! AMEN!

  As for the critic. I know its voice now. It's been a companion for far too long. It no longer has a place in my heart, my mind or on my tongue. Lord, I give it to You to do as You see fit. AMEN!

  

  

  

More to the Story

   "Give thanks to Him who made the heavenly lights--His faithful love endures forever. the sun to rule the day, His faithful love endures forever, and the moon and stars to rule the night. His faithful love endures forever." Psalm 136:7-9

  I woke up early this morning with a sense of urgency filling my being. For decades I've felt the need to do this painting. For decades I have put it off. Until today. I might put a bit of varnish on it once the paint has cured for a couple of days. It will make the dark and somber colours come to life.

  Creating art is always an emotional thing. To create is to bare your soul.

  This is the view I wrote about a few days ago as being the birthplace of faith; of believing there was something, Someone, greater than I. Painting it transported me back in time and while my eyes and hands worked away I listened to the heart of a twenty year old.

  Pat Benatar sang. People were laughing. The aroma of smoke filled the cool, spring air. 

  Mixed in with the awe and wonder was a sense of being utterly insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Big night skies can do that sometimes. But, I also felt puzzled. How on earth did I end up at a party where I really only knew the man I was dating?

  The great "Not Belonging" whispered. 

  In hindsight I've realized I was living under a blanket of severe depression. My dad had passed away suddenly just before Christmas. With his passing, I was left feeling truly alone in life. 

  Truthfully, I was alone. 

  How can words describe it? How can words describe the ache? The hollow emptiness that comes when loneliness inhabits your soul?

  Yet, in the night sky littered with a billion stars, a ghost of a hope that someday, someone would love me for who I am. That I would finally find the place where I belonged.

  Maybe it was my twenty year old heart praying to the great Someone. 

  He answered my wordless prayer by being by my side without me ever knowing He was there. For decades, He waited until I reached the end of myself. A woman who had no more strength to fight through the suffocating and lifelong Great Alone finally learned His name.

  I haven't done this painting before because I didn't believe in my abilities. The inner critic planted in my heart has left a legacy of self doubt and confusion. To finally see the memory manifested just as it has always been in my mind's eye is to be so incredibly thankful. 

  I have a God Who Never Fails. 

  The victory is His.

  The victory is ours.

  

PS. The related post was written on Feb. 14, 2026