I find that there have been times in my life where I come to a crossroads; or rather, a ditch crossing the road. And though I try with everything I have to figure out a way across, there arrives no sound answer.
Not with the junk I’m carrying on my back. The true thing is to jump the span and make it to the other side and discover a new land, a fresh pasture with springs and daisies and laughter. So weighted, I can’t muster the strength to jump.
Hence, I am faced with a terrifying choice: To get to the new land, I have to dump the junk. Anyone with common sense would understand the stark contrast between the lush new land, and the ugly weight of what I’m carrying.
But not me. No, I’ve been carrying with me a marred, scarred-up wasteland on my back for quite a long time – for s long now that it feels as though my soul had been born there, that I am a native of that wasteland I’m carting with me.
To let go, first of all, would ruin me. Would destroy my identity. To the core. It would be like ripping the flesh off my bones and expecting me to survive. It’s a cruel proposition, to let go.
Someone might have made a mistake somewhere a while back so that the new land isn’t really what I have been told, that my eyes deceive me, that my hope in getting there was foolish. It’s a land where I would not be me, any longer. I would be denuded. That is scary.
But here is the miracle of God: He allowed me to carry around all that junk for a time so that when the time was right, I would become strong enough to let it go.
When I’ve gone through something hard, the weight of its difficulty is proven by the magnitude of what it I let go; and more so – the new lush land so much richer with that terrible weight let go.
A Brave New Heaven 