I read the scripture over and over again as I sit in my black dress, the one I’ve chosen for this harsh occasion– my mother’s funeral.
"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”- Matthew 11:28
At first, I can barely read the words written on the notecard in front of me. Tears make things hard to read, especially ones that flow heavily and steady. I wonder if the person who handed it to me simply wanted to give my brain something different to focus on, something besides the way it feels like my heart has been shattered and my soul torn apart. I’m sure the faithful person who gifted these words to me meant well, as people usually do. But right now, on the floor of this bathroom, I feel betrayed and lonely.
I don’t want rest. I want my mother back– the woman whom my family has just buried. I want my hope back and the future that I’d planned, the one that included the woman I’ve looked up to each day of my life. I want my heart to feel whole again.
I want things that I simply cannot have. Things this card and this world cannot give me.
I don’t know why, in the midst of my paralyzing grief and my fresh and raw mourning, I find myself stuck on these words— obsessed with them even, but I am. Heartbroken and suddenly fixated on this phrase from scripture, these words from a book that is holy and sacred. Neither of which I feel right now.
I want the rest that Jesus speaks of if it means comfort. If it means support and relief. If it means the weight of this significant loss will be lessened and easier to carry. That kind of rest would be welcome, invited even.
“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened…” – and here I am, grieving and disheveled on this bathroom floor, weary and burdened, among so many other things. I’m here, full of tears and pain, feeling alone except for my grief. Longing for the answers to this new and unique situation I’ve found myself in– how to carry forward without my mother.
Moments later, completely oblivious to exactly how much time has passed, in reading the scripture in front of me again and again, I realize that I am not alone. I’ve simply failed to do my part. In fact, in the past week of my mother’s final days and moments, I have failed to ask for help. Not once have I gone to Him with my devastation and my longing. Not once have I gone to Him with my grief and my fear. Not once have I gone to Him with my ache and my anger. I’ve sat with it, deep and invisible, buried in the pits of my being. Too prideful to show it, too hurt to say it out loud.
While He sees it and knows it is there, I haven’t selflessly shown Him, boldly trusted Him, or faithfully called or prayed to Him.
To gain the rest and solace I so desperately seek, I must first go to Him, to God.
First, I must trust Him without boundaries. I must seek Him when I’m forced out of my comfort zone and when the weight of grief is unbearable. I must relinquish the desire for control, knowing that for me, it is merely an illusion, but for Him, it is reality. I must not only read these biblical words but live and breathe them.
“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”- Matthew 11:28
So, I sit here on this bathroom floor, in realization and in grief, and I repeat the scripture again and again until I find I’m praying, effortlessly and intentionally.
Lord,
I am here. I come to you broken and hurting. I come to you overwhelmed with the grief of losing my mother, consumed by the pain of what will never be. Paralyzed by the physical empty spaces that will now fill my future moments. Completely bewildered by the happenings of watching my mother’s final breaths and then consequently laying her to rest– all while praying she’s being welcomed into heaven with you.
With a delicate and vulnerable heart, I proclaim that I am in need of your comfort and your rest. I am in need of your grace and your love. I am in need of your guidance and your wisdom. I am in need of your hope. I am in need of you, Lord.
My faith may be imperfect, and my ways may be flawed, but I am here, ready for your light and your promises.
Here I am, coming to you, desperately asking for the rest that you speak of but also so much more. I’m asking for my faith to be solidified, for my heart to be mended, and for my mind to comprehend the endless capacities of your word. I’m asking for your help in ways I’ve never asked before. Please, Lord. Please.
I finish my solemn prayer. I wipe the streaked makeup from my face and the tears that continue to fall, and I walk back out into the crowd of family and friends. We continue mourning together. We continue to honor and remember the greatest woman I’ve ever known, my mother.
And while it wasn’t immediate. And while it wasn’t without fierce determination and messy faithfulness, my prayers were answered.
“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”- Matthew 11:28
The rest I received wasn’t the kind that comes with pillows and blankets and sleep. The rest I received was the one that I needed. It was the kind of rest that allowed the heaviness of grief to be easier to carry, to be lighter. It’s the kind of rest that allows the darkness to fade and the light to shine through again. It’s the kind of rest that lifted me from the deepest pits of mourning with invisible yet undeniable love and comfort. It’s the kind of rest that helped me breathe effortlessly again. The kind that helped me rise, not only to survive this grief but to truly live again– not only for myself but to honor my mother’s legacy.
God made a promise to the weary and the burdened, and if you wait, if you stay faithful and willing to accept His comfort, it will be there. In fact, it already is.
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