"Lay down your burdens...I will carry you..."

"Lay down your burden, I will carry you
I will carry you, my child, my child
Lay down your burden, I will carry you
I will carry you, my child, my child

If I can walk on water
And calm a restless sea…
I give vision to the blind
And I can raise the dead…

And I see those sleepless nights
And I count every tear you cry
I know some lessons hurt to learn

Lay down your burden, I will carry you
I will carry you, my child, my child
Lay down your burden, I will carry you
I will carry you, my child, my child.."

I love this Amy Grant song, "I Will Carry You," from her Rock of Ages – Hymns & Faith CD released in 2005.  There is something so comforting and holy for me in listening to it.  It reminds me of days when I was a little girl starting at, yet, one more new school.  And I really was a little girl.  I was only 4'10" when I graduated from high school and that was after a serious growth spurt.  I don't think I ever started in a new school without teachers and classmates thinking I was much younger than I was...like years younger. 

Teasing and bullying seemed to be the most consistent thing about grammar school and junior high.  Whether it was a tiny schoolhouse in an Iowa farm community or a sprawling suburban junior high school I could count on one thing, if you were new and different, liked to read and weren't particularly good with balls – kickballs, basketballs, tetherballs – you were going to be poked at, pushed around and laughed at.  I really didn't like new schools.  I think there was a part of me hoping that if I read everything I could get my hands on, did more homework than was assigned, and aced every test,  I would be smart enough to be exempted from going to school.  It wasn't that I didn't like learning.  In fact, I loved learning. I loved reading about new ideas, distant places, and periods in history when nobility and courage trumped what neighborhood you came from or what kind of car your parents drove…whether you bought a hot lunch or carried a recycled brown paper bag.  I loved discovering that there were laws that governed the universe and formulas for solving equations.  I loved the learning...the pure joy of exploration ideas, plumbing the depths of creativity and discovering the adventure within myself.  I did not like "going to school." Teachers, administrators, other children...they terrified me.   It's probably why I became a teacher and administrator. I hoped I could do it differently, with more awareness of what it was like to be a "new kid," to be different, to feel afraid.  I still have that hope...a different career...but the same hope.  Today I realize that most teachers and administrators share that same great hope. In fact, at our daughters' school this topic is being actively addressed spiritually, while at the same time students are learning how they can take a stand against acts of unkindness.   But I digress...again.

I had attended 11 schools by the time I graduated from high school and I was not proud of it.  I felt like a gypsy with a trail of tears.  Just when I would begin to feel like I had made a friend or found a route to school that didn't involve walking past a house with a big barking dog, it would be time to move again. 

The most consistent good thing about going to school, however, was coming home to my mom.  No matter where we lived, she was there.  Walking through the front door...of whatever house we were living in...was like stepping into a warm bath after trudging through a bitterly cold blizzard.  Her love was a place to rest.  She didn't see me as a bookworm, a scaredy-cat, a midget, or an over-achiever, she saw me as…me. In her heart I could relax. I didn't have to "be like a duck and let it rolls off your back" or "hold you head tall and walk through the storm" in her arms.  I didn't have to worry that if I cried it would make me look weak and therefore even more fun to tease.  In the kitchen with her on those afterschool afternoons I didn't have to be an example of resilient grace and unflustered poise for my younger siblings.  I didn't have to pretend that I liked moving from house to house and going to another new school so that my younger brothers and sisters would be fine with it too...in the warm kitchen, in her arms, I could just be me. 

I can remember so many days when I would find her in any one of those dozen or so kitchens, and she would smile, and every tense little molecule in my being would turn soft again.  In her presence I could speak without stuttering and listen without straining to hear the question so I could be sure to get the answer right.

Today is no different.  Sometimes, when the world around me seems all too ready to pounce on our perceived mistakes, weaknesses, insecurities…our humanity…I will find myself wanting to walk through that front door and search first the living room, then the bedrooms and finally find her in the kitchen…really knowing she was there all the time...and collapse into her arms.  I know that when I find her face, I will be able to really breathe again in the presence of her acceptance and love.  Throughout my life I will often pick up the phone and call her just to hear her voice.  When she isn't home (or her cell phone is out of range) I remember that her love, no matter how unconditional and constant, come from a greater source…God.  It is in those moments…when my mom is not available, or able, to take my call…that I stop, close my eyes, draw on the memories from my childhood, and walk through a different door where  I can still drop my heavy bookbag, shrug off my cardigan, kick off my penny loafers, and pad through the house in my knee socks to find Her.  My Mother God is always there to open her arms and tell me She loves me and that I am good enough for Her.  In Her arms I can breathe deeply, cry a little if I need to, and always feel at home. 

"…I see those sleepless nights
And I count every tear you cry
I know some lessons hurt to learn

But, Lay down your burden, I will carry you
I will carry you, my child, my child
Lay down your burden, I will carry you
I will carry you, my child, my child"

Some lessons do hurt to learn…but I am -- gratefully -- Her child, Her child.
Kate