As the garage door closed behind me, I could feel my eyes begin to sting. Sobs shook my body. But tears wouldn’t come.
It was that song. Those lines. That little girl, who used to sing them with such abandon.
“Are we weak and heavy laden, cumbered with a load of care?
Precious Savior still our refuge, take it to the Lord in prayer.”
It was my grandmother’s favorite hymn. I learned it at a time when I still believed people don’t hurt those they love, at least not intentionally. At a time when waiting until 16 to date seemed like waiting until life was over. And at a time when trusting God’s hand meant never shedding a tear. I didn’t understand why anyone would be weak or heavy laden, much less why friends would despise and forsake. But I am. And they do.
There I was, three times as old and for a moment only a fraction as confident that God would redeem every tear that had fallen this year — let alone this lifetime.
But only for a moment. Because it struck me then: if I didn’t have a need, I wouldn’t need a Savior. Oh, how I need Him. I wouldn’t trade that feeling for anything — past, present or future.
“Though He slay me, still I will trust Him,” I breathed through barely open lips.
Even more: though He slay me, still I will praise Him.
He can redeem. He must. It is who He is.