Bearing their burdens

They greet me with the same rehearsed lines as last Sunday. Still, I shake their hands warmly, holding my head high. I used to hate every last one of them, and for what? For being the same things I often am— unsure of how to help, painfully mortal, longing to be of some eternal use. All this, hidden in the obligatory: “We missed you last week. Are you still working? What a nice sweater!” They are trying, and for that I cannot fault them.

I regret not realizing sooner that the gnarled hands I shake, and the soft ones, from the skillful veterinarian’s, to the gangly elementary school boy’s— they are all precious, and human, and pulsing with life, and they each have the same wonder as they take my own small hand in theirs. What’s more, we all secretly hate the long sermons, but love to sing “How Great Thou Art,” and truly just want to go home and nap for the rest of the afternoon.

Why did I never realize that with these acquaintances, whom I see every week but scarcely know, I share the dread in my heart, and the peace, too? The dairy farmer and the choir teacher and the young mother with 3 small children, they feel the same things I do, even as we laugh forcedly, and make our way to the door to shake the pastor’s hand. It is all too easy to be deceived into thinking my own depraved darkness is more profound than theirs, or my joy more important. I regret not lending a sympathetic ear, if only for a moment, and a more forceful smile. Perhaps this is what is meant by, “Bear one another’s burdens.” How could theirs be too heavy, far too problematic for me to carry, if they are the same as mine? And how often the weight on my shoulders is eased, by simply the kind “Hello” of the old pianist, or the polite nod of the teenaged boy in the cowboy boots! How hard can it really be to show kindness, despite my own hurt? How very difficult? I purpose in myself, more intently and more often, to at least care.