on sunday, a strong and heart-soft old man stood up to read psalm 23. he told us what it meant to declare the Lord is my shepherd, i shall not want.
it's been a hard year for him. for his wife. his daughters. we've been wrapping them in prayer week by week, and they've kept on, kept on.
and when he read those words, he broke down, broke open, spilled over tears and his heart was bare.
and it wasn't any longer a room full of individuals, but a unit, a unity, one body. gathered around those tears, that love, that Shepherd.
one heart, broken, like the bread on the table.
one cup, sorrow, on every lip.
nourished by the broken body.
strengthened by the poured-out cup.
being bare before the body, heart bowed and tears flowing.
we want to cover, protect, hide.
pain and shame and loss and grief or any of the wounds that knife us deep.
but bandaids don't heal these kinds of hurts and Jesus told us and showed us to bear one another's burdens with the clothes torn off and the skin flayed. this is my body. broken for you.
the burden baring.
the burden bearing.