I Am Carried

I have made you and I will carry you.

—Isaiah 46:4

By 6:30 a.m., my husband and I were up, dressed, and ready for the big day ahead.

It took a little more time to get four kids ready. Ranging in age from six to sixteen, they required attention and constant reminders. “Do you have your socks? Did you brush your teeth? Where are your tennis shoes?” All ordinary parts of every day. And yet they remained clueless about what to do.

Don’t even get me started.

Once mom, dad, children, and grandparents had shoes tied and bags in hand, we locked up our hotel room and made our way out into the terrifying wilderness of greater Los Angeles. We told the kids we were running a few errands, that we had a few things to do before we continued our family vacation. The sixteen-year-old knew otherwise. He was far too savvy to fall victim to our secretive plans. But the little ones? They were none the wiser. They simply buckled into their car seats and settled in for the drive.

Thirty minutes later, their innocent faces took on an entirely different expression.

Surprise. And complete, head-to-toe joy.

Our so-called family errand had landed us right at the front gates of Disneyland.

Thus began our one-day family adventure at the Happiest Place on Earth. It was our little ones’ first Disneyland experience. Our trip allowed us only one day there, so we determined to make the most of it. Up before dawn, at the park when it opened, and ready to play until the stars appeared at night.

And boy did we play! We rode nearly every ride, collected character autographs, ingested far too much food, and probably walked fifteen miles. Which is why the Cushatt Disneyland Extravaganza nearly required wheelchairs for the grownups by the time the sun had set.

We were exhausted, utterly and completely. My feet hurt. My head hurt. My stomach hurt. Did I mention all the food? We didn’t want to miss the closing day parade and the opportunity to squeeze in a couple more rides. But I wasn’t sure my feet could take a single additional step.

And then my six-year-old girl tugged my shirt and looked at me with her best puppy-dog eyes: “I’m tired, Mommy. Will you carry me?”

At this point, I could barely carry my own head. I swear it grew by twenty pounds somewhere in between Splash Mountain and the swirling magic tea cups. Carrying a sticky, sweaty forty-pound six-year-old did not land on my list of fun things to do.

And yet I couldn’t ignore her weary eyes. For perhaps the first time in her life, she’d expended every ounce of her seemingly limitless energy, dancing through Disneyland like a human version of Pooh’s Tigger.

But she’d hit her limit. One look at her face and I knew she’d sleep like the dead that night. Me too. Even so. I lifted her little self into my arms, allowed her to drape her arms around my neck, and nestled her face and chin into the hollow of my neck.

When I felt the warm exhalation of her breath on my skin, I momentarily ached for a return to childhood, when I could trust arms bigger than mine to carry me when life grew too hard to endure. Is there anything more reassuring than the knowledge that there is someone bigger and stronger able to lift us above the struggle? Even so, a day came when I realized that my parents, in spite of their strength, were not above life’s difficulty. As they aged, they grew weak. And as I matured, I saw them as they were: human, flawed, and, at times, tired. Full of love and devotion, but unable to carry me.

Life is far from the fantasy of Disneyland. Although I’ve been blessed with seasons peppered with hints of happily ever after, the difficulty and pain and grief of this life still show up. And these realities can wear me down and make me far too tired to go on.

That’s when I discover God’s promise to carry us isn’t empty.

I’ve lost track of how many dark nights He’s carried me through. Tough high school years. A painful miscarriage. An unexpected divorce. Single motherhood. Adolescent motherhood. Blended family. Financial insecurity. Spiritual uncertainty. Illness and disability. And each time I grew too tired to walk, I looked up and cried to my Father, I can’t do this, I have nothing left. Please, God. Carry me?

He did. Without hesitation, without condition. No complaints about His weariness. No sighs of exasperation or rolling of His divine eyes.

Instead, His sure arms wrapped around me, my face nestled in His neck.

What is weighing you down right now? What feels far too heavy for your weary arms to carry? The weight of it all needn’t rest on your shoulders, you know. He is with you. And He will carry you.

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest,” Jesus said (Matt. 11:28).

Yes, that. Always.

Why did Jesus still have wounds on His risen body? The traditional answer is that the wounds proved it was really he and not an imposter . . . But I believe the wounds had a deeper meaning with radically transforming implications that affect us through the ages. I believe the wounds were the sure sign that the eternal God through Jesus has never and will never ignore, negate, minimize, or transcend the significance of human woundedness. The risen Jesus is not so swallowed up in glory that he is beyond our reach, beyond our cries. He is among us, carrying wounds, even in a body of light. His every word and act shining forth the meaning and heart of God means that God’s heart carries our wounds. He suffers with us.

—FLORA SLOSSON WUELLNER, FEED MY SHEPHERDS