Wednesday, March 20, 2013


A loud crash sent me scurrying into Bubby's bedroom late Tuesday afternoon.  I knew he was safe--he wasn't even in there--but I couldn't imagine what that noise had been.  So it was with a feeling of trepidation that I turned the corner into the bedroom to investigate. 

I had been rearranging things in Bubby's closet earlier in the day, freeing up usable space by placing items higher up that we don't need to easily access.  Some time after I left the room, the top shelf crashed down, causing the bottom shelf to fall as well.  It should have been able to hold the weight.  I thought it could hold even more than that.  I was wrong.

The top shelf is completely wedged in place about a foot and a half lower than it should be, and angled crazily.  As in the top left corner and the bottom right corner of the shelf have gouged their way into the wall.  I'm talking half an inch deep.  On both sides.  It is not pretty.  I am not moving that thing without seriously damaging the wall even more than it already is. 

I wanted to cry.  I just wanted to sit down right there in the middle of Bubby's fallen clothes and the miscellany scattered around on the closet floor, hang my head, and cry.

But I didn't.  I gave myself a pep talk, told myself I was strong enough to deal with this, and decided to do what I could and wait for help for the rest.

The bottom shelf should have been easy to just slip right back into the bracket.  It just fell straight down, after all.  It's simple, really.  Just angle it up, lining up the shelf with the holes in the bracket, and gently ease it back into place.  But time and again that darn shelf fell.  Just when I thought I finally had it.  Five, nine, twelve times, I just kept trying. 

Finally, I broke, too.

Oh, it was messy.  Not quite throwing myself on the floor screaming while flailing my arms and legs, although I wanted to.  Not quite throwing something, anything I could get my hands on as hard as I could.  But it was not pretty.   Loud, breathless, heart-broken sobs, tears flowing and snot streaming.  Broken.

I thought I could hold more weight than that.  I was wrong.

It's all so much, too much.  Keeping the household running, the bills paid, the cupboard and refrigerator stocked, the driveway clear.  Running the kids to Scouts and karate and church things, and the appointments!  Good Lord, the doctor and dentist and orthodontist appointments!  Caring for them when they're sick, attending their school functions, cleaning up after them.  And doing it solo a good portion of the time. 

I. Am. Not. Strong enough. To hold that weight.

I am not strong enough.  I'm not.  If I try to hold that weight on my own, I will always fail.

And that, my friends, is why I need a savior.  Someone strong enough to bear the weight of the world's sin on his whipped raw, bleeding and broken shoulders.  Someone strong enough to hold the entirety of creation safe in his outstretched, pierced hands.

He is strong enough, so I don't have to be.

God is our refuge and strength,
a very present help in trouble.
Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change,
though the mountains shake in the heart of the sea;
though its waters roar and foam,
though the mountains tremble with its tumult.
Psalm 49:1-3
Though the shelves will fall, though the children will be sick, though the snowblower not start, though the days run together in an endless stream of busyness and tedium, I will not fear.  For God, my strength and my song, is with me.

“Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens,
and I will give you rest
Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me;
for I am gentle and humble in heart,
and you will find rest for your souls
For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”
Matthew 11:28-30

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