Unburdening Prayer
- Christine Labrum
- Jul 10
- 5 min read
Updated: 2 days ago
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. 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 think well, keep up with the tasks, and persevere. But anxiety seems to have a grip on me. I keep trying to release the weighty concerns, but the knot remains.
The path has been up and down, rocky and meandering. I have no clear sense of where we
are headed. It is a slog these days... one step after the other... still moving forward... I think.
I haven’t created or painted in weeks. I thought that was what I was supposed to be doing in this season, especially after working through my creative crisis a few weeks ago. But I can’t seem to get there. I have a new drawing that I began wrapped up in my pack. Every time I see it, I want to engage, but I just can’t seem to focus. I feel hesitation, fear even, at the thought of applying color to the pencil lines.
I pause for a moment, and I feel my weariness. The path ahead seems treacherous, and a fog has descended. I can’t see clearly.
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 bag 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. I know it is him. How I need him, but I feel so foolish in this struggle and angst.
Jesus sits down beside me, kicking off his sandals. He turns to face me. “Nice spot, I was ready for a break. So how are you, my girl?”
I just look at him. Tears begin to fill my eyes and my throat tightens. 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 feel so stupid. I should know this by now, how to manage it all, carry it well, and persevere.” I drop my gaze.
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, daughter.” He instructs, tenderly but firmly. I turn toward him and look into his eyes, tears dripping from mine. I see no judgment, just compassion.
I ask, “Why does this overwhelm feel like failure?” So caught in my own spinning thoughts.
“Daughter, 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 is weighing 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 up. I still feel the knot in my stomach, 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.
What burden stirs anxiety in your backpack?
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My tears start to fall again. Jesus looks at me, “You cannot control this. It is not yours, and it is not yours to fix. Will you let me carry it?"
All my thoughts collide in a jumble, and I can’t speak. 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).
He turns back to my bag and pulls out something else. He holds my concern for a loved one. “Lord, I feel so helpless. My loved one is in pain, and I feel like I need to do something. Is there any way I can fix it?”
“Can you give this loved one to me? You can act, you can offer support and presence, but you can't control this. Can you entrust this loved one to me and let me carry the weight?” Jesus waits for my response. I nod, too tired to argue.
Who might be in your backpack?
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Jesus reaches back in the bag and pulls out my worry and fear concerning so many different things. “Daughter, I know you are afraid. Can you offer this fear to me and press in close. I am with you."
I can feel the fear—I can almost taste it. I don’t trust myself to speak, so I nod again. My bag is already beginning to look smaller.
What fear might be in your backpack?
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Again, Jesus puts his hand in my bag 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 ask him. A little unnerved by the darkness that had been lurking in my bag.
There is a break in the clouds above us. Jesus holds it up, 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. You are beautiful 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!”
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 again.
*******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.
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