Pack Light
Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.
(Matt. 11:28)
I have a confession to make. I don’t know how to pack light. I've tried. Really. But I also need to be prepared – kind of like a Boy Scout. Prepared for church, prepared for court, prepared for the zombie apocalypse. Prepared to parachute behind enemy lines or play in a rugby tournament. And if, by some odd chance, the Dalai Lama were on my flight and invited me to join him for dinner in Tibet, I carry snowshoes, just in case. You have to be prepared, right? That’s why I just don't know how to pack light.
Truth is, there's a lot about travel that I don't know. For instance, I don't know how to interpret the restrictions on a Supersaver-Seat – half price if you leave on Wednesdays during bass season and return when the moon is full in a non-election year. I don't know why they don't build the whole plane out of the same material they use to construct that little black box that planes carry to record events in case of a disaster. And I don't know how to escape the airplane toilet without sacrificing a limb to the jaws of the self-closing door. There's just a lot about traveling that I don't know.
I don't know why men would rather floss a crocodile than ask for directions. I don't know why vacation pictures aren't used to treat insomnia, and I don't know when I'll learn not to eat foods whose names I can't pronounce. But most of all, I don't know how to pack light. I don't know how to travel without granola bars, sodas and rain gear. I don't know how to travel without flashlights and a generator and a GPS. I've got an iron that doubles as a paperweight, a hair dryer the size of a coach's whistle, a Swiss Army knife that expands into a pup tent, and a pair of pants that inflate upon impact. See? I just don't know how to pack light. But I really do need to learn. And you’re probably wondering why I can't do just that: learn. Loosen up! you're probably thinking. You can't possibly enjoy a journey carrying so much stuff. Why don't you just drop all of that excess baggage? Funny you should ask because I'd like to ask you the same.
Haven't you been known to pick up a few bags, too? Odds are you did this morning, in fact. Somewhere between the first step onto the floor and the last step out the door, you grabbed some luggage. You stepped over to the baggage carousel and loaded up. Don't remember doing that? That's because you did it without thinking. Don't remember seeing a baggage terminal? That's because the carousel is not the one in the airport; it's the one in your head. And the bags we grab are not made of leather; they're made of burdens. The suitcase of guilt. A sack of discontent. You drape a duffel bag of weariness on one shoulder, and a hanging bag of grief on the other. Add on a backpack of doubt, an overnight bag of loneliness, and a trunk full of fear. Pretty soon you're pulling more stuff than a Southwest skycap. No wonder you're so tired at the end of the day. Lugging luggage is exhausting.
And what you may have been saying to me, God is saying to you: "Set all that stuff down. You're carrying burdens you don't need to bear." "Come to me," Jesus invites, "all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest." (Matt. 11:28) If we let him, God will lighten our loads. Okay, fine, but how do we let God do that? Turn to the 23rd Psalm.
The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me to lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside the still waters. He restores my soul; he leads me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; you anoint my head with oil. My cup runs over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever.
Do more cherished words exist? Framed and hung in hospital halls, scratched on prison walls, quoted by the young and whispered by the dying. In these verses sailors have found a harbor, the frightened have found a father and strugglers have found a friend. And because the passage is so deeply loved, it’s also widely known. Can you find ears on which those words have never fallen? Maybe, but not likely. Set to music in a hundred songs, translated into a thousand languages, domiciled in a million hearts, and maybe one of those hearts is your own.
So, what kinship do you feel with those words? Where do the verses transport you? To a fireside? Bedside? Graveside? Hardly a week passes that I don’t say them, or at least a few of the verses depending upon my circumstances. It’s like a wonder drug to a physician, and a balm applied to the heart of a friend. Summoned to his house with the words, "The doctors aren't giving him more than a few days," you look at him and understand. Face pale. Lips stretched and parched. Skin draped between bones like old umbrella cloth between spokes. The cancer has taken so much: his appetite, his strength, and his days. But the cancer hasn’t touched his faith.
Pulling a chair close to his bed you squeeze his hand and whisper, "The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want." He rolls his head toward you as if to welcome the words. "He makes me to lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside the still waters. He restores my soul; he leads me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake." Reaching the fourth verse, and fearful that he might not hear, you lean forward until you’re just a couple of inches from his ear and whisper, "Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me." He doesn’t open his eyes but arches a brow. He doesn’t speak, but his thin fingers curl around your own, and you wonder if the Lord isn’t helping him set down some luggage, maybe the fear of dying.
Do you have some luggage of your own? Do you think God might use David's psalm to lighten your load? Packing light means trusting God with the burdens you were never intended to bear. Why don't you try it? Try it for the sake of those you love because you may not have considered the impact that excess baggage has on relationships.
I saw a play that made this point through some pretty effective drama. A wedding was reenacted in which we heard the thoughts of the bride and groom. The groom enters, laden with luggage. A bag dangles from every appendage. And each bag is labeled: guilt, anger, arrogance, insecurities. The fellow was loaded down with all of it. And as he stands at the altar, the audience hears him thinking, Finally, a woman who will help me carry all my burdens. She's so strong, so stable, so . . . And as his thoughts continue, hers begin.
She enters, wearing a beautiful wedding gown but, like her fiancé, covered with luggage. Pulling a hanging bag, shouldering a carry-on, hauling a makeup kit, paper sack – everything – everything you could imagine and everything labeled. She has her own bags, too: prejudice, loneliness and disappointments. And her expectations? Listen to what she was thinking: Just a few more minutes and I’ll have the man of my dreams. No more counselors. No more group sessions. So long, discouragement and worry. I won't be seeing you anymore. He's going to fix me.
Finally, they stand at the altar, lost in a mountain of luggage. They smile their way through the ceremony, but when given the invitation to kiss each other, they can't. How do you embrace someone if your arms are full of bags? So, for the sake of those you love, learn to set them down. And, for the sake of the God you serve, do the same. He wants to use you, you know. But how can he if you’re exhausted? That truth came home to me while I was on a hike last year.
Preparing for the hike, I couldn't decide what to wear. The sun was out, but the wind was a little chilly. The sky was clear, but the forecast said rain. Jacket or sweatshirt? I wore both. I found two old iPods – one loaded with books and the other with music. I took both, of course. Needing to stay in touch with my wife and the kids, I carried my cell phone. So no one would steal my car, I pocketed my keys. As a precaution against dehydration, I brought a bottle of water along with some change in a little pouch in case I needed to buy more. Of course, where do you find kiosks selling water on a hike out in the middle of east county? You don’t. I looked more like a pack mule than a hiker, and within half a mile I was peeling off the jacket and threw it in a bush to retrieve later on my way back to the car. That kind of weight will slow you down.
And what's true on a hike is true in our faith. God has a great race for you to run. Under his care you will go where you've never been, and serve in ways you've never dreamed. But you have to dump some stuff. How can you share grace if you’re full of guilt? How can you offer comfort if you’re disheartened? How can you lift someone else's load if your arms are full of your own? For the sake of those you love, pack light. For the sake of the God you serve, pack light. For the sake of your own joy, pack light.
There are certain weights in life you simply can’t carry. Your Lord is asking you to set them down and trust him. He’s the father at the baggage claim. When a dad sees his five-year-old son trying to drag the family’s luggage off the carousel, what does he say? The father will say to his son what God is saying to you. "Set it down, child. I'll carry that one." Let’s take God up on his offer. We might just find ourselves packing a little lighter. "Unload all your worries onto him, because he cares for you." (1 Pet. 5:7)
Grace,
Randy
