Unburdening Prayer

Prayer from the Trail: an imaginative prayer of release on the journey with God

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)

Settle into a quiet space and turn your attention to God and to your heart. Take a moment to ask God to meet you in this imaginative prayer. What is your journey like now: the landscape and terrain? Dark or light? Weather? Obstacles? What burdens do you carry? And what is your sense of God when you attend to God?

It is spring along the trail. The last month has been a challenging mix of hopeful spring warmth and damp cold days that feel more like the harsh weather of winter. My schedule is full, the “to do” list is long, and the needs around me are significant. I have a knot in my stomach that will not release as I seek to keep up with the tasks and persevere. Anxiety has a grip on me.

The path has been up and down, rocky and meandering. I have no clear sense of where we

Prayer along the trail

are headed. It is a slog these days... one step after the other... still moving forward... I think.

The path ahead seems treacherous and a fog has descended. I can’t see clearly. I pause for a moment, and I feel my weariness.

There is a spacious place a few steps off the trail with a big rock that would make a good resting spot, a place to sit for a while. My backpack feels so very heavy. As I place it on the ground, I collapse and lean back against the rock.

I contemplate my pack which seems to have grown bigger than I remember; it is full and bulging at the seams. I feel the tension in my chest and the knot in my gut, and I just don’t want to keep going like this... so burdened and weighed down.

I see a shadowy figure approaching. The figure draws near with a steady gait, and I know it is him. How I need him, but I feel so foolish in this struggle and angst.

On the journey with Jesus

Kicking off his sandals, Jesus sits down beside me. He turns to face me. “Great spot, I was ready for a break. So how are you, my friend?”

I look into his kind eyes. My throat tightens, and tears begin to surface. I want to offer shiny, happy words, but the cloudy horizon echoes my internal landscape.

“O Lord, not so good. I can’t figure it all out. I should know this by now, how to manage it all, carry it well, and persevere. I feel like a failure.” I am caught in my own spinning thoughts.

Jesus is quiet. I can feel his presence and sense his steadiness. He puts his hand on my knee. “Pull your bag over here. Let’s see what you are carrying, dear one. Maybe you can give something to me, and we can share the load. That is the idea of being yoked with me, journeying with me?!” I feel both relief and shame pour over me, and a sob catches in my throat.

“Look at me, dear one.” He instructs, tenderly but firmly.

I turn toward him and look into his eyes, tears dripping from mine. But I do not see judgment—I see compassion.

“Daughter/Son, somehow, reasonably but not truly, you still feel that you need to be good and succeed for me... rather than partner with me and entrust to me.

You are weary. Let’s see what you are carrying that weighs you down. We will share the load on some things, and some things are truly not yours to carry.”

I drag my backpack around so that it is in front of us. I unbutton the flap and open it. My stomach is clenched in a knot, but Jesus is relaxed and at ease. 

He reaches over and pulls out something heavy and awkwardly shaped. It is the burden that is not mine to manage, it belongs to someone else.

My defenses rise, and I begin to speak. But then Jesus looks at me and gently instructs, “You cannot control this. It is not yours to fix. Will you let me carry it?"

All my thoughts collide in a jumble, and I want to argue. But I know he speaks the truth.

“I see you,” Jesus says, his eyes filled with compassion, “This is mine now.” Jesus places it in his bag (somehow the size of his bag is always the same—year after year—no matter what he takes from me).

What burden do you carry that stirs anxiety but is not yours to manage?

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My Backpack

Jesus turns back to my bag, reaches deep in the center, and pulls out something soft, heavy, and filled with color, shaped a little like a heart. In his hand I see my concern for one I love. “Lord, I feel so helpless. My loved one is in pain and my heart just aches. Is there any way I can relieve the suffering?”

"Child, I see your heart, and I feel your pain. You can love and be present, and sometimes I will lead you in concrete ways to serve. But you cannot remove the pain of the one you love. Only I can heal and restore. Can you entrust this loved one to me?” I nod, too worn down to argue.

Are you burdened by concern for a loved one?

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Jesus reaches back in the bag and pulls out a large object with sharp edges. He holds my worry and fear concerning so many different things: health needs, limited resources, and even the conflicts and violence within our nation and the world. Jesus looks at the dangerously sharp object in his hand, and then he looks at me. “My friend, I know you are afraid. Do you trust my love for you? You can act, make wise choices, or even unwise choices, but you cannot control all these things. Will you let me carry this?"

I can feel the fear—I can almost taste it. I don’t trust myself to speak, so I nod again. Jesus places it in his bag. My bag is already beginning to look smaller.

What fear is weighing you down?

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Jesus pauses, "Remember, when you find that something you have released to me has made its way back into your bag again... just stop and release it to me again."

Jesus lifts his gaze from my bag to my eyes. "All right dear one. One more thing."

Jesus puts his hand in my bag one final time, at least for today, and pulls out something dark and obviously weighty. I am not even sure what it is. The moment he pulls it out; my bag is conspicuously lighter and roomier.

“What is that?!” I exclaim, a little unnerved by the darkness that had been lurking in my bag.

Jesus holds it up. There is a break in the clouds above us, and a beam of light reaches for Jesus’ hand. The dark mass almost seems to squirm, shrinking when the light reaches it.

“This is shame, dear one. It will grow when buried in the depths of your pack, hiding from the light. It will touch and cling to every burden you carry. But it cannot thrive in the light, my light. Hear my words to you and over you. In me, you are beautiful, wise, and strong, dear one. You are equipped to partner with me and to carry what I entrust to you. But if you take burdens on yourself that I have not given you... you will struggle. Trust me, dear one!”

How might shame be weighing you down?

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I notice that it is brighter where we sit. The fog is dissipating as the sun burns off the morning mist. The light of Jesus’ presence has cleared the heaviness in the air. As I look back at Jesus' hand, the darkness has disappeared. I think it may have simply evaporated in his presence. I suspect we will do this again, but for now, I lean against him... my heart is at rest once more.

*******Is God inviting you to release anything else to him?********

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  This prayer emerged from my own prayer and was re-written to invite you to engage with your own story.

  
  

COME: God's Invitation to Rest and Renewal

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