A Box and A Jar
- Christine Labrum
- Oct 31
- 6 min read
Updated: 5 days ago
Prayers from the Trail: an imaginative prayer on the journey with God... and a gift
Each day we engage our journey through life. Reflecting on the image of a trail can be meaningful. (Psalm 139, Psalm 142:3, Psalm 119:105, Psalm 23, Prov 5:21, Matthew 11:28-30, Luke 24)
Settle into a quiet space. Turn your attention to God and your heart. Take a moment to ask God to meet you in this imaginative prayer.
I have been hiking for a few hours now and notice a massive fallen tree by the side of the trail. Intrigued and curious, I make my way over and climb up on the fallen giant. What a good spot to rest for a while I surmise. I expect that my big brother is not far behind me, so I settle myself to wait for him but wonder how I got so far ahead.
As I relax, I begin to feel my weariness, and I look around. I notice the base of the tree where the gnarly, exposed roots are suspended in the air, no longer hidden beneath the earth providing stability and support. At one time the tree must have majestically towered above the canopy, but now it lies horizontal, a lifeless bench for me to sit upon. It is interesting, sad even, and I ponder what truth might be revealed in its story, but my attention strays elsewhere.
After only a few minutes, I take my phone out of my pocket, click the familiar icon, and check the weather. Then I open Google Maps to discern my exact location, and, of course, check texts and messages. As I wait for my brother, I add to my "To Do" list and peek at my social media accounts... just for a moment.
My backpack is heavy today, so I pull my arms out of the shoulder straps and drop it to the ground. From my perch I scrutinize it rather intently. It was not all that long ago that my pack was too heavy to manage, and I was exhausted. My brother helped me discern what was truly mine to carry and what was not. I remember some of the burdens he asked me to release to his care.
Hearing movement on the trail, I look up and see a masculine figure approaching. He approaches with a steady, familiar gait, and my heart expands. I know it is him.
"Ready for a rest?!" he calls to me. Jesus draws near and climbs up on the trunk beside me, on the fallen giant. He turns to face me. “This one was magnificent as it reached for the clouds each day and the stars each night." His gaze travels the length of the tree from the exposed roots, up the long trunk, and all the way to the extensive branches, mostly bare now as dying leaves have fallen to the ground. His expression seems sad for a moment, but then he turns his attention to me. "So how are you, my friend?”
I look into his kind eyes. I know he loves me: my Brother, my Shepherd, my Savior, my Lord. My throat tightens, and I drop my gaze for a moment. Sometimes his love and affection feel overwhelming, just too much goodness offered and it is more than I can tolerate... as strange as that may seem. My heart is filled with love for him... and deep gratitude.
I gaze down the trail that we have yet to travel, and I think back across the miles we have journeyed together: the places we have been, the people we have encountered, the conversations along the way. There have been times of ease and hardship, times of isolation and community. And sometimes just the two of us traveled the trail together. I know it has been good, so good, even the treacherous and challenging places. But as I consider Jesus' question I realize that I am feeling worn thin again.
Reluctantly, I admit, "I am doing okay, I suppose, but this last stretch of trail wore me out, Lord."
Jesus' gaze is direct and intense, but it is not harsh or critical. I know he sees me more clearly than I see myself. "As you hiked the trail at your current pace, I noticed you left me behind. What is your hurry, dear one?"
What determines my pace on the trail?
Have I run ahead or fallen behind Jesus?
__________________________
Jesus continues, "Rest is a good idea, and I would love to sit with you for a little while. You can tell me what you have been thinking about and what you have noticed as you hiked. And shall we assess your pack and see if there is any way we can lighten your load a little more?"
"Absolutely." I respond quickly, "It has been so much better than before, but I welcome your help and wisdom."
Jesus jumps off the makeshift wooden seat, picks up my pack, and places it on the rough bark of the trunk beside me. Unbuttoning the flap, he looks inside and reaches into my bag. Jesus pulls out a small box that clearly has weight despite its small size.
The moment I see the box in his hand my heart plummets, and guilt rises. It holds some habits I am not particularly proud of, the ones I excuse and minimize. Scrolling on social media, shopping on Amazon, watching a screen to escape the pressure... for just a little while. I placed most of them in the box when life was hard, and I continue to make excuses for them. Most of these actions are considered harmless... until they become habits and addictions that distract me from Him and our journey together.
“My dear friend, I know this little box seems insignificant to you. But it adds to the weight you carry, and even more important, it draws your attention away from me. Can we leave this behind?” I nod my consent, because I trust him. So Jesus sets the box on the ground.
What distraction is burdening you rather than offering true relief?
__________________________
Jesus turns back to me. He continues, “I want to give you something to replace the box. If you put it in your pack, it will truly lighten your load rather than increasing your burden.”
I force myself to look at Jesus, because I do trust his love for me. Jesus takes off his own pack and sets it beside mine. He reaches into his bag and pulls out a clear jar with a lid that appears to be empty. It is not small, and it is not large. He hands it to me and chuckles as he sees the bewildered expression on my face.
Puzzled, I bombard Jesus with my questions and confusion, “You want me to put an empty jar in my bag? I don’t really have the space for it. Won’t it just add to my burden? And what if it breaks – couldn’t that be dangerous?”
He grins, undeterred in his offering. “This jar holds silence and stillness, dear one. It will not break. You need to practice turning away from distraction. Turn off the noise, turn away from screens, slow your pace, and become still. In the silence you will be more able to see me and hear me clearly. You will be less likely to run ahead of me or lag behind me, you will find your pack lighter and your resilience greater. The Spirit of God, Ruah, is love, power, and self-discipline, she will help you (2 Timothy 1). Will you trust me and place it in your bag?”
I hear the authority and the gentleness in his voice. With conviction, I reach out and take the jar from his hand. It seems silly to put an empty jar in my backpack, but I do trust him so I tuck it down into my bag and button the flap.
Jumping off the big old tree trunk, I step back and look at my bag. Actually, it does look a little smaller, even though I just added the jar. As I place one arm through the shoulder strap and Jesus helps me with the other strap of my bag, I am distinctly aware that my pack is lighter. Hmmmm... so very strange... a box and a jar.
And what might Jesus invite you to add to your pack?
__________________________
One useful metaphor for prayer is imagining one's life as a journey with God on a trail... in the spirit of Pilgrim’s Progress or Hinds Feet on High Places. There are many Scriptures that support this idea of a journey with God (Psalm 139, Psalm 142:3, Psalm 119:105, Psalm 23, Proverbs 5:21, Matthew 11:28-30, and consider the Israelites in the wilderness or Elijah’s journey to Mt Horeb.)
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