“I just don’t want to do that,” I tell God persistently. I am sitting on the floor cross-legged, knees tucked to my chest, the very picture of childhood obstinance except that I am an adult. I am pouting, I know it, I do not care. “It looks hard, and I am tired. And besides, look at all the things I am still carrying.” I gesture to the bags behind me, bags filled with hurt feelings and broken relationships. “I am already carrying all of that around, you cannot possibly expect me to have the strength to face this new challenge, not with all of that. It’s too heavy, and I am just one person.”
“What makes you think you are going out alone?” God settles herself down on the floor in front of me. She reaches out her hand and touches my forehead. Her fingers trace the outline of the place where through the waters of baptism she marked me as her child. “I am coming with you.”
“Oh,” I sigh. “Well, I still have to carry all this stuff. And it’s still heavy.”
“And about that stuff, why are you bringing all that with you anyway?” Her voice is soft, calm and concerned. I look over my shoulder at the pile of bags containing all my old grudges and anger standing behind me.
“Well, what else am I going to do with them? I can’t leave them here. And besides, I learned things from those problems. It’s just that they’re so heavy, and I’m bound to get more of them. I don’t know that I can handle anymore quite yet.”
“Since I’m coming with you, how about I carry them for a while?”
“They’re pretty heavy,” I caution, “I don’t know if you will be able to lift them all.” God looks at me, a slight frown creasing her brow, behind which her eyes twinkle with amusement.
“I am God, I think I can probably handle them,” she comments drily. She reaches around her back and pulls out her bag. It is one of those black sack-bags. You know the type, black leather, looks professional and can carry anything but the kitchen sink. God’s is sleek and sophisticated, the very picture of hip elegance. I smile. Those bags can carry a lot of stuff, but even God’s bag is dwarfed in comparison to my collection of mismatched luggage. There is no way all of my bags are going in there. God does not seem to notice the vast size difference.
“Hand me one,” she says calmly. I reach over and drag a bag towards me. At this awkward angle even I, so familiar with its weight, have trouble maneuvering it. God reaches past me, lifts it from my grasp, and without a thought, slides it easily into her bag. And then the next, and the next. She keeps going until, to my surprise, all of my bags are inside hers. Her bag does not even look full. I lean over to peer inside, but God pulls her bag back towards herself and closes the latch.
“Yours are not the only bags I have in there,” she says, smiling, “best to leave other people’s problems to themselves.” Rising to her feet, she swings the now-loaded handbag over her shoulder as if it still weighed nothing.
“Ready to go?” she asks, offering her hand as I struggle to my feet. I take her outstretched hand. I feel lighter but oddly clumsy without the bags' familiar weight
“Not really,” I sigh, as she pulls me to my feet. Even without the bags, I am still apprehensive. The memory of their weight on my shoulders is hard to forget. But God gives my hand a comforting squeeze, and smiles warmly at my hesitation. At last I turn, squaring my shoulders towards this new direction.
“If you promise to come with me,” I say softly, “I suppose I can.”
"Of course," she smiles warmly, reaching out to brush my forehead one last time. "Of course, always."
