Imagine a fully-outfitted, weary hiker on a long and winding trail.
A narrow trail that started somewhere long ago, in a place far away from here. The path became the way ahead, though it’s hard to say how or why the hiker’s tread now lands on this particular ground. Perhaps someone pointed the way, almost thoughtlessly, or maybe the journey was mapped out with care. Whatever the reason, the hiker walks, and the mile markers have long since rotted away.
Dust scuffs up from worn shoes. There is a heavy pack on the hiker’s back; it is hot, dry, and there is no place to set the backpack down or pause to take a sip of water, so she trudges on.
From overhead one can see there are others on the trail, and other trails, too, but the hiker walks alone. Too tired to talk, still wanting to be polite and appear to be enjoying the trek, she thought it best to launch out in front, away from human voices. On one pretext or other the hiker continued on, and now all is quiet. Only the sound of labored breathing, the clank of water bottles, the ‘scritch, scritch’ of the pack against layers of too-warm clothes.
“I’m going to have to stop”, comes a voice, and the hiker is startled, then realizes it’s her own. The trees have begun to narrow, the sun is strong overhead. A root trips her foot, again, and everything lurches for a moment. It seems there are more and more roots, more swamp, more mosquitoes and flies, always sharp rocks, more sudden surprises of steep ditch or broken branch. Breath is coming in grunts and gasps now, but there is still nowhere to sit; the only choice is carry on and watch for some spacious place, a field or log or mossy bit of ground – anywhere to set the impossibly weighty and bulky backpack that presses hard into her shoulders.
How did it get so heavy, she wondered? Where did this burden even come from? She didn’t remember having a pack at the start. It seemed that water was all that was needed, and there had been signs along the trail promising it cold and fresh. Still, she had filled a few bottles. Some time ago a hiking companion had laughingly mentioned how bent the weary hiker seemed under the weight, and offered help. The trail buddy had rummaged around, laying all the hiker’s personal things out in the dirt, and explained with confidence what should be added, what must be thrown away. Then it was packed up again and onto the hiker’s back, given a hearty slap, and the accomplice stepped lightly away. Hmm, yes there did seem to be less bulk, but somehow the grimy pack was even more leaden than before.
Others met along the way had cried out, “Hiker, lighten your load! You’ll never make it!” But glancing over her shoulder, it seemed that her pack was the smallest of them all. Hiking companions took long strides, leaping up hills, some with much larger loads. “There must be something wrong with mine. With me”, came the voice. “Maybe it’s that I’ve been carrying it such a long time”.
Once in a while, she came upon a friendly hiker who walked alongside, talking and pointing out sights and lovely scenes along the trail. They helped carry the pack for a few moments, or lifted the weight awhile so the hiker could rub her aching shoulders and cool her back. These friends were a godsend. They made the journey so much lighter.
Staring down alone through waves of heat at torn and muddy shoes, the hiker wondered where this endless path was heading. Surely, the mountains must be around the next corner. Surely there was a field, a stream, something to break the monotony of prickly, dry spruce and sharp stones, the oppressive sweat, the stifling air. The next step she took ended in a trip, and the hiker landed on hands and bloodied knees. Her crawl became a slow drag, which finally became a stillness. Huddled on the path as the sun set and a cold rain began, finally there was nowhere left to go.
Looking up as morning rays warmed her aching bones, the hiker glimpsed through the trees a faint flash – perhaps light on water, maybe shining grass in a breeze. It was a different direction than the path ahead, a sharp turn to the right into forest. Surely, after all this struggle, she must not abandon the path! No. There must be strength left. A mighty heave, a faltering step forward, yes – that was it. Simple, blind determination. Do not think; do not breathe; do not feel. Progress might be painful and slow, but the hiker would keep going.
The flash came again through the trees. It continued, night and day, until curiosity won out and instead of trudging forward, the hiker paused. She stood there for a long time, then purposefully turned ninety degrees and pushed through the dense foliage. Where on earth was she going? The hiker wandered, trying to catch a glimpse of that brightness, but it was unsteady. She became lost a few times, and learned to listen very carefully, learned to climb trees and look out, learned to tune out everything except what was leading her on.
And finally, a widening, and then the hiker comes out atop a high hill. Blinking, gradually aware she is gazing out onto beautiful grasses, stretches of glowing sand, a soft wind, the gleam of open ocean! A spacious place. Carefully setting down the pack, the hiker stares through tears at the dance of the sun on the water. After a time, she opens the pack and looks for what to bring, something to sustain, things of importance. There are a few tattered maps, empty containers, rocks, dust. Nothing of value but a packet of photos and a few letters gathered along the journey.
Leaving her old backpack behind, the hiker runs down to the warm sand, the gently salted air, and sits for awhile just looking out to the horizon. There is a boat tied to a little dock, and secured to this, a basket holding colorful gifts wrapped in ribbon, some bread, a jar of water. Fruit, nuts, some kind of smoked meat. An instruction manual in a plastic bag.
Wrapped up and attached to the mast is a large white sail. She steps aboard and pushes off from shore. After a little while the wind picks up, and she begins slowly to raise the mainsail like she was born to it. The sail catches, luffs for a minute, and with a little let-go of rope – the sail fills.
“Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.
For My yoke is easy and My burden is light.” Matthew 11:29-30
Stories for Humans 