The weekend wasn’t bad. Really, it wasn’t. It was just . . . heavy.
The kind of weight that leaves you unable to sleep on a Sunday night, tossing and turning, rotating and re-rotating and rotating the pillow again, as if one slight shift will bring swift sleep. The kind of weight that makes your heart ache and your head ache and your hands ache. The kind of weight that leaves you without comforting words, without easy answers.
Aching with the weight of the world. Aching with the weight of worry. Aching with the weight of loneliness. Aching with the weight of hopes unfulfilled, dreams half-empty. Aching with the weight of it’s-all-so-much. Aching with the weight of hard questions and hard answers.
And it hits me. Sometimes like a brick through a window, glass shattered everywhere and nothing is the same. Sometimes like a shin to a chair leg, with a bruise the next day and clumsiness cursed. Sometimes like a baseball to a bat, and it flies and flies and flies. It hits me that when the weight is too much — and it always is — we must give it all to the only One who can bear the load.
So when our hearts feel heavy, we must run. We must run to the arms of the One who knows us, who made us, who holds us. We must run to our knees. We must run to folded hands. We must run to the place of tears. We must run to the place where the weight of this world and the weight of our heavy hearts meets the only One strong enough to carry it all.
(photo credit: my handwriting and Instagram app for iPhone)