For Those Carrying Heavy Things
A story, song, some beauty, and a shared understanding.
Dear friends,
Robert Frost once said that poetry begins with a lump in the throat. I believe many Substack essays are likely born in this same way, including this one. Sometimes this lump in the throat comes from a forgotten grief, bubbling up while we pluck avocados from the produce aisle, and other times after witnessing a moment of beauty. Either way, the response reminds us we are alive and that our longings point to a home beyond the reach of pain or sorrow.
I felt this lump in my throat three nights ago. Except it was more of a gasp. It was nearing the magic hour, and I drove along six miles of country backroads between a vista of rain-drenched fields. On the left, the sky was blue and brilliant. On the right, it shadowed the field in a hovering darkness about to start the second act of a thunderstorm.
I am at home in this sensory juxtaposition. Bright and dark, shimmering and brooding. It reflects my interior world most days. My natural melancholy, coupled with mental illness that presents as a cyclical mood disorder, brings with it highs and lows that compete with each other desperately, depending on the hour.
Cresting a hill and then following the road as it dipped toward a creek bottom, I watched a great buck dart across the road and leap over a fence. I was awestruck. Magical, mythic, illuminated in golden light, it was as if the elements had conspired together, positioning me toward this single moment so I could witness a truly majestic sight. And I don’t even like deer all that much!
There it was—the lump, tugging on me.
The reason for this drive was to attend a friend’s 33rd birthday party, which, in the world of hobbits, is considered a coming-of-age milestone. After a brutal year that involved a leukemia diagnosis and seven months of painful treatments, she wanted to celebrate the gift of life. Since this friend is a lover of all things Tolkien, it was the perfect excuse to brighten the November night with laughter and celebration.
* * *
“Feasting is an act of war.”
I’ll never forget this phrase, coined during an arts conference several years ago. It stuck, making its way around social media and eventually into one of Andrew Peterson’s songs, Remember & Proclaim:
This feast, it is a battle
That we wage against the night,
This joy is just a shadow of the resurrection
Of the resurrection life!
What I’ve learned this year, both from the heaviness of my own circumstances and from this hobbity friend who fought for her life, is that our burdens are often too heavy for us to carry. And, for some reason, we’ve invented this myth that they’re not. That we should mask the weight or keep tugging it behind us, alone, until we collapse. This isn’t how it’s meant to be. Scripture invites us to bear each other’s burdens and cry out in our distress. When we are honest about our sorrows, we have the gift of being present in one another’s lives—yes, especially when it’s inconvenient—and blessing those in our community with a meal, a conversation, a monetary gift, a prayer, etc.
In her memoir, The Cloister Walk, Kathleen Norris describes how Christians “try to be holy without being human first.” And at the core of being human is need. There is no shame in asking for help and letting others know our burdens are too heavy. For when we reach the end of ourselves, we discover a new path: one marked by much-needed companionship, generosity, care, grace. Our self-sufficency is stripped, and we are laid bare. Human, then holy.
That poetic lump in the throat sparked this essay because, this week, I need to speak these words to myself, too. After a long day, I drove down the street and found refuge in a parking lot. It was mostly empty, carpeted with yellow oak leaves. Here, the quiet desolation met my own without judgment and provided a welcoming space to “recenter my scattered senses upon the presence of God” as Lectio 365 puts it (my favorite prayer app).
Usually, it’s not any one thing that overwhelms me but the complexity, frequency, and intensity of troubles that layer with time. As my still-newish husband and I seek to form a life together, we’re approaching our first Thanksgiving while trying to navigate the complexities of school, unemployment, sickness, car issues, integrating into a new church, blended family dynamics—not to mention everyday activities like eating well, moving our bodies, growing spiritually, and spending time together. Everything feels heavy right now. Amongst the seige of my mental illness, which I was well-aware would follow me to the other side of marriage, and the crying I do behind closed doors, it is so hard to keep going sometimes. Yet there is a strange comfort in praying, “God, this is too heavy. I have nothing to give. I don’t know what to do, and I don’t know where else to look. I want to believe that you love me and are working for my good—but I need some evidence that you have not abandoned me.”
Our arms aren’t made for these burdens. And confessing this takes the pressure off, allowing us to release them to God, trusting him to do what we cannot.
In the meantime, we keep living. Boldly, defiantly, wholeheartedly. As my brave friend showed me, when life is too heavy, we can still throw a party. Feasting is an act of war.
Together, the group that gathered on this farm three nights ago enjoyed Celtic music and charcuterie boards, silly Hobbit-themed mad-libs, flower crown weaving, simmering hot chocolate, and unbelievably good beef stew seasoned with fresh rosemary, thyme, and oregano. An abundance of riches! A party like this isn’t an escape from sorrow but a bold declaration of God’s goodness in the midst of it. Even when hardship is crushing, I do believe these tacticle pleasures are the evidences of his presence and that endless joy in the world to come.
* * *
If you’re carrying things today that are too heavy to bear alone, tell someone. Ask for help, for prayer. Share the load.
You might also take a walk or a long drive with a favorite audiobook or some beautiful music. These are always faithful companions for me. Maybe you’ll catch a glimpse of an antlered creature bounding through the air at the exact moment the light catches his hooves. “There, peeping among the cloud-wrack above a dark tor high up in the mountains,” wrote Tolkien in The Return of the King, “Sam saw a white star twinkle for a while. The beauty of it smote his heart, as he looked up out of the forsaken land, and hope returned to him. For like a shaft, clear and cold, the thought pierced him that in the end the Shadow was only a small and passing thing: there was light and high beauty forever beyond its reach.”
I’ll leave you with this chorale piece by Joel Clarkson. Listen to it as a prayer, and let the words and melody remind you of the hope we all carry alongside our sorrows.
Warmly yours,
Bailey
Listen to Your Life is a weekly newsletter featuring essays on faith, health & well-being. It’s designed for readers who want to pursue God and live well in the face of unmet longings. Subscribe for free to access select essays, or become a paid subscriber for $5/month and receive the full post archive + special content (videos, healthy recipes, mini-retreats, and more!).
*Due to health issues, my ability to engage in traditional work is currently limited, making this publication a true labor of love. I would love to continue writing while on my health journey, so if you feel led to support my creative work/ministry in this way, I would be honored!
To me, your words describe a life lived in fullness. Without the clouds, the blue sky is never so blue. When life pushes you right to the edges, the depths and the farthest corners, and you meet your people there, you get to experience grace and love soooo deeply.
Thanks for you words. X
This was lovely Bailey, gave me a lump in my throat too. What a courageous friend you have, as you are too (!) as you show up here with your words and encourage so many of us!