his NOT mine

"You live in South Sudan?!" or actually usually it's the more generic "You live in Africa?! Wow.  There are probably lots of bugs and snakes there, huh?  I could never do that.  You're a saint."  These are the kinds of things people say.  To me.  Yes, these exact words.

"Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”  ~ Matt. 11:28-30

Turns out I'm more fond of my own yoke, or burden, than HIS.  Because I'm constantly told that my choice to live in "Africa" must be a burden, somehow subconsciously I've let it fall into that category.  When in fact, while there are surely challenges involved in life here, it is actually more often the opposite - quite a joy.  But it's a joy I've chosen, or by other people's definition (that it seems has seeped into mine) it's a "burden" or a "yoke" that I ("ana yaau de" - I am the one)  have chosen.  No one had to forcibly push me onto the British Airways flight that brought me here.  No one had to force my pen to the paper when I "signed on" with World Harvest to move to South Sudan.  I made the choice.

Seems I like to keep things that way.  The way that means that I get to choose how things go...where I will go and when, when things will be hard and how.  I like to choose my own yoke.  My own burden - how heavy, how I will carry it and to where.  When someone else chooses those hard things for me, those circumstances I like to have a say in,  I essentially throw a fit.  At 33, thankfully these don't include screaming or stomping my feet and waving my arms around (although, now that I think about it, that sounds quite cathartic), but they are fits nonetheless.

My mom is really sick.  Sick with something that I can't control.  Something she can't control.  Something the doctors can't control (gasp!).  Unless God chooses to do something drastic, I will lose her long before I ever thought I would, long before I want to, long before I would ever-in-a-million-years choose to.  But no matter how many mornings I wake up hoping it's a bad dream...it's not.  It seems this is HIS yoke.  His yoke for her, His yoke for me.  His yoke for us.  It seems this is the burden we are joined to HIM under.

Thing is, somehow HE says, HIS yoke is light.  "Easy" in fact.  But I'm tellin' you what.  This yoke that I'm sharing, carrying - it ain't anywhere near close to "light" or "easy."  Maybe that's because I haven't rested under it.  Maybe that's because I'm still throwing a fit and trying desperately to get back to mine.

But He says HIS offers me rest.  Sign me up.  I'm tired of pitching fits.  My soul needs rest.  Maybe I'll find rest when I stop trying to carry it by myself.  Maybe I'll find rest when I take up the yoke that is shared WITH HIM.  The yoke He says is HIS.

You know what I never noticed before?  This rest, this light and easy yoke, when you look at the verses that come before it, it's rest from the wearying and heavy things that are hard to understand, hard to bear...those things whose meanings/reasons are hidden from the wise/learned and revealed to who? To little children.  Kids are pretty good at sharing hard things...things they aren't excited about.  Maybe things like moms who have terminal illnesses?  Maybe I should take note.