The Cross You Were Never Meant to Carry Alone

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It’s a sticky July morning when we pile into the van and follow country roads to their house.

We pass the bank on the hill, and the digital sign blinks 9 degrees.

Already?

Mr. Ian greets us when we arrive.

“My, my, you’ve got your hands full,” he says, referencing the four little ones who seem to have turned into squirrels upon entering their home.

They dart from window to window, pressing their faces against the panes to see the many species of birds, the fish in the fountain, and the hibiscus bathed in delicate peach.

“Let children be children,” Mr. Ian says as we fret about the prints we are leaving behind.

He’s the one who does all the cleaning.

“Linda will be down shortly,” he says, then gives us an update.

“She looks better than she is.

By looking at her, you wouldn’t know anything is wrong.

But when I cut her eggs in the mornings…” Mr. Ian trails off.

My heart softens at this man who stoops low to carry another, who cooks special meals, cleans up sickness, and cuts eggs.

“Her hands and feet are blistered, fingers numb.

The doctors say there’s nothing more they can do, so we’ll just keep taking the meds.”

Ms. Linda does look good when she comes down.

You wouldn’t know her liver is full of hot spots and that under her left arm there’s a lump.

Jackson takes the children for a look at the wonders outside while I talk with these two precious ones.

She tells me it’s been five years and the meds she’s on now are better than the ones before, but that’s enough about her.

“How are you?” she asks.

I choke back the tears.

I don’t want to talk about me.

I want to go to my knees and serve them in the only way I can, with beseeching prayer.

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I struggle through the questions, trying to tell them what we are doing and where we are headed in a few weeks.

Then Jackson returns, and the four of us huddle around the sofa on our knees.

We’ve somehow made a circle, our hands and hearts entwined.

As we pray, Ms. Linda softly says, “Yes, Jesus,” and Mr. Ian is heaving big sobs, a broken man drawing water from the Well.

It’s the Spirit who intercedes, and Joshua 1 is what He’s pressing on our hearts, out of our lips.

“Every place on which the sole of your foot treads, I have given it to you.

From the wilderness to the setting of the sun will be your territory.”⁴

I see Linda’s blistered feet beside me, red, swollen, and painful from the journey through her wilderness.

Even so, I know this place she treads, though hard and rocky and painful, it is “given” to her.

That makes it a gift.

And it says so right there in scripture: Every inch is a gift, be it the glory of the sunset, the dryness of the desert, or everything in between, every inch is given.

“Oh, God!” I cry out on behalf of these dear ones.

“Give us vision!

Restore faith where it has faltered, for You have given this land.

We don’t understand, Lord, but help us believe.”

When our prayers are completed, Mr. Ian just shakes silently with the burden and the blessing.

He wraps his arms tight around me, and I know this is a gift.

We all walk to the car, and Mr. Ian looks at me, pointing at the guest house.

“You see that, girl?” he asks.

“Yes, sir,” I nod back.

“That is where we meet every Friday night and call down the heavens, like we just did inside.

With you all headed back overseas, He’s on me to start meeting for you again.”

I realize in a very real way, I might have been a small reason for this couple’s cross.

I see the brokenness in them, the five long years of pain and struggle, the unknowns.

I see the burden they bear.

Their cross caused awareness of the desperate need, a desperation which drives one to agonizing prayer.

Something niggles inside, words that need a hearing.

Jesus’ words, there in the Garden, when the cross was pressing close.

I follow Him in my mind, go with Him into the Garden, and envision Him asking His disciples to watch and pray.

I hear the words He utters, “Could you not tarry with Me one hour?”⁴

Jesus asks us to tarry in prayer.

When the cross presses, it presses us to prayer, which paves the way for the Kingdom of God to come in power.

Voices in the wilderness always prepare the way of the Lord.

This gift, this wilderness, this cross, it is the bearing, the laboring, and the unleashing of the kingdom of God.

The gift is the invitation to participate in redemption.

It all converges, the nail-scarred hands, the blistered feet, the tears in the Garden, the words whispered, “Not my will but Thine, Thy kingdom come.”

The tarrying, the invitation, the gift.

The unleashing of heaven.

But how can we bear with Him if we do not believe, if we have no vision for the victory, the purpose, the glory, no vision of the redemptive story being accomplished through the cross?

No vision of the rent veil, the throngs before the throne?

In the bearing of our cross do we not understand how we fill up and flesh out the sufferings of Christ?⁴

Surely His people perish for lack of vision.

We return home, and I stand at the sink before a pile of dirty dishes, the cry for faith on my lips, the prayer for vision of the joy set before me.

The flesh is weak, and eyes are prone to fail.

There at the sink He answers my prayer for faith.

“You must always trust Me, because even in the desert I will make a road.⁴ Even in dry lands I will make rivers for you.

Jump in with both feet, blistered though they are, because you can trust Me.”

I look down at my feet, weary, worn, and unsure.

I jump.

I jump into the path before me.

Both feet driven by trust.

P.S. If you enjoyed today’s devotional, please consider buying me a coffee to keep these devotionals possible. Thank you! 🤗

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1. What is your reaction to the concept of “every inch is a gift?” Is it difficult to embrace in your own life, especially during challenging times?

2. Do you believe it is possible to trust God in hardships even when we can’t see what He is doing or understand why?

3. How can you be intentional about supporting others who are going through difficult times, especially in building their faith through prayer and presence?

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