The Wooden Desk


We descend down narrow metal stairs that take us
into as cozy of a basement office as we could expect.
Settling in the usual places to begin, my eyes glance
toward the desk in the corner.

Heavy heavy heavy.
The kind that might just stay there forever.

Words come from my inner most places
Transparent and uncivilized
Weariness words
Wrath words
Heavy heavy heavy

“Where is God?
I’m so tired of doing this on my own.
Where is the Father?
Where is the Healer?
Where is the Shepherd?

I have been creating and carrying my religion;
Powering my spirituality from the last dregs of sour obedience and bitter duty

How I wish my tears could erase my sin
They forever flow
and I am so tired.
Where is the Father?”

My friend and counselor is not
threatened or
baffled or

He kindly smiles, leans forward and offers another view.

“It’s as if you have been trying your whole life to pick up
that heavy wooden desk and carry it up the stairs by yourself.

You’ve been straining and failing
Sweating, cursing, failing
Gritting your teeth and failing.
Preoccupied with this impossible task
Perhaps that is why you can’t feel God.

God’s gentle whispers blow across ears
that are listening for the creaking cracking of the wood
Glimpses of His gaze go unseen by eyes
scrunched up tight in effort
Arms that are marked with bruises and dents
from digging into the heavy desk have lost
sensitivity for the hands of God reaching out to embrace.

With a heavy task like that one, God is a heavy task master; if you feel Him at all”.

Curiosity peaked, I consider surrendering.
If I let go, what damage would I cause?
Would some part of me get crushed under the load if I opened my arms and let it crash?

And what then?
Empty hands

Nothing in my hands I bring
Hands that are used to clinging.
Clinging and failing
Would I stand there empty alone?

Cast my cares on Him
Cast my cares on Him for He cares
Cares, pursues, died for

He carried the heaviest burden in His hands
Simply to the cross
Nailed to the cross

The way of Jesus means dying with Him but it does not mean dying like Him.
He died with the weight of my sin so I don’t have to carry it, die with it.

Not the labor of my hands
Nothing in my hands I bring
Thou must save
(A burden I was never capable of carrying)
Thou alone.

1 Comment

Lots to contemplate here, Cameron. Thank you for sharing a glimpse of your heart with us. I like how you spoke about the fear entangles us, yet God is whispering to us let go. Stop trying. I get you and I got you.

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