I’m tired of telling the truth.
I’m tired of looking back.
I am tired of the struggle.
It’s been such a heavy burden.
I picked up this backpack and I’ve been carrying it around since I was about four. It’s a cool backpack with compartments everywhere, some of which are even hidden.
One pocket has a tragedy from when I was three, another holds a rape at 13. My secret compartments contain all the real damaged stuff. You know, like the murder.
Each year it just kept getting heavier and more weighty than the year before. I was completely impressed with how many pockets I could find. I hid stuff in that back back for years and years. I suppose you could rightfully say that I stuffed it away.
You know why I’m tired?
I put that backpack down about 20 years ago and started opening the pockets.
The stuff I found, neatly tucked away, was astounding. Of course, those tidy pockets were never supposed to be opened, but then I found a God who cared. A God who already knew what those pockets contained. He didn’t want me to carry that burden any longer. He wanted me to let Him carry it for me.
So, I let Him.
I still get tired but not like I once did. I am so happy that my backpack is pretty darn empty these days. I can’t be certain there aren’t other hidden pockets somewhere, but I am certain of this — if it needs to be found, God will show me.