Free, unfettered, skimming the night sky, the moon smiles down on me as it makes its stealthy escape, heading west. Tomorrow I, too, shall set sail, clad in clouds, freed from earth’s bonds, brightly beaming, winging toward oceans unseen.
I will bask on unknown shores. Sit. Savor. Unfurl.
Jesus’ yoke is easy, and his burden is light. Yet, onto my side of the crossbeam, I always pile extra cargo, stacking it high, scooping up slipped freight, tying tight round my waist the fallen tidbits, yoking up, staggering under the weight, pressing on.
Gently, he smiles at me, knowing my frame, prepared for the inevitable. His eyes are kind.
Weary of the cumbersome load, I’ll tire, hit the wall, crumble to the ground, and weep. With tender hands, he will caress my head soft against his shoulder. He will pat my back, soothing me. He always does. This seems to be the warp and woof of my weaving. This is my life. I can do nothing by halves. I must be all in.
But, come tomorrow, I’ve been sprung.
A gracious gift. An airline ticket. A retreat. I will escape. He prepares the way. I will rest.
“He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, he restores my soul” (Psalm 23:2-3a NIV). What a tender Shepherd he is!