Thursday - October 8, 2026
SCRIPTURE
Matthew 11: 28
Come to me, all you who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.
WORDS OF HOPE
The other day I realized just how heavy my mind was. How much I was carrying. Recent deaths, imminent deaths, terrible diagnoses. Relationships ending. Friends with aging parents in crisis, and adult children learning to walk again as a strange disease attacked their body. And, dear God, the world we live in—where every day the powers that be slap us with another outrage, another violation of dignity and justice without a drop of mercy.
“Stop!” I said, to my mind. Even writing part of the list of concerns weighted consciousness once again. Memory took me back to a time I taught Tim O’Brien’s “The Things They Carry,” an acclaimed collection of stories of the Vietnam era. In telling detail he unrolls the contents of a group of soldiers’ backpacks—can opener, pocket knife, candy, dog tags, love letters, the finest marijuana, and much more. But two common items bound them all: a thick compress bandage in case they got shot and a green plastic poncho for cold and rain but also to wrap bodies of the wounded before transport.
It was a time the young women I was teaching were laden with their own heavy loads of academic work and anxiety over college choices and other personal issues. I could read it in their eyes, so we paused class and did a guided meditation where they went to a beautiful place in nature and set out on a hike with a backpack, which over the course of the journey, got heavier and heavier. As they paused for a drink of water, they considered if there was anything they could leave behind to lighten their load—or if they could even temporarily leave their pack, knowing they could retrieve it when they returned. Lightened, refreshed, they became more mindful of the pine and spruce, the cascading waterfall, the tiniest purple flowers on the forest floor. They breathed. They sat on a large boulder and felt the morning sun on their face. A sacred pause.
The recollection suggested that I too needed to put down my backpack of cares and turn again to the practices which restore my soul and help me see beauty again. Writing it out. A morning walk. Singing the song given for the day: “O Love which will not let me go.” Hearing Jesus’ words: “I will not leave you [them] comfortless.”
Another ritual practice arose at a grief retreat. In my room the evening of the first night, after 15 people had begun to share the stories of their loss, it took shape. I stretched out my arms, with hands cupped upward. I called out and placed the names of the persons grieving and the loved ones who had died into those hands. Then I drew in my hands to my heart, holding them there for a moment as tears fell. Afterward I opened my arms wide and released this shared pain to the wide mercy of God, imaged as the then gentle- flowing Guadalupe. Each time I perform this ritual, casting my burden upon the God who sustains us, it releases the weight of sorrow.
PRAYER
“God of the gathered and the scattered, thank you for people who check in, who show up, who remind us we don’t have to do life alone. Bless our mutual care. Bless shared meals, shared tears, shared laughter. Make us brave enough to ask for help and generous enough to offer it….Let our connections be a shelter, our compassion a healing balm. Band us together in ways that honor our limits and multiply our strength, so that no one among us is left to carry their burdens alone. Amen. Ase.”
(Excerpted from a prayer by Rev. Dr. Winner Laws.)
DEVOTION AUTHOR
Dr. Pat Saxon
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