Soul Food -- Michele Marr

“Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give

you rest.” Matthew 11:28

It was around mid-April when Pope John Paul II called a number of

American cardinals to Rome to discuss the church’s escalating sex

scandals that the news started bringing me down. Not that I noticed it

then.

At about the same time, every remnant of peace in the Holy Land

unraveled like a moth-eaten sweater. Pictures of destruction in Jenin

appeared in newspapers almost daily. By early May, 56 residents of the

village were confirmed dead.

It was far from the hundreds, the massacre, that had been alleged. But

all the same, it was 56 too many.

In Bethlehem the siege at the Church of the Nativity remained a

standoff. Throughout Israel it seemed like suicide bombers were becoming

as common and as lethal as a heart attack. The death toll of Israelis

from the bombings rose to hundreds.

But it wasn’t until the remains of Chandra Levy were found on a slope

in Rock Creek Park that I noticed -- reading the news I was getting blue.

I’d been sure that God was going to answer my prayers for Levy’s safe

return to her family just as he had answered my prayers for my sister’s

missing cat Buddha. Buddha is home -- injured, healed and a little worse

for the wear, but she’s home where she is loved.

Like the eight foreign aid workers held captive in Afghanistan then

released safely to their families at long last, I was sure that God would

do no less for Levy and her family. But he didn’t.

There are times when God must tell me again that not all the answers

are mine to have. He has to tell me again that not all the cares of this

world are mine to carry.

When I find myself lumbering under a burden too heavy I can rest

assured, either the burden’s not mine and I need to unload it, or it’s

mine but I have forgotten to seek God’s help in bearing it.

Years ago, God gave me a parable -- a personal parable -- that helps

me remember this. It’s often just when I feel as weary as weary can get

that I recall it.

When I was 7 years old I owned a splendid red umbrella. A smart red

ruffle with crisp white polka dots trimmed its edges. I lived in Virginia

that year.

When it rained in the spring I was cheerful, and when it snowed in

winter I was happy because -- rain or snow -- I got to use my fine red

umbrella.

One mid-winter day that year, as I walked home from school, a

particularly heavy snow began to fall. I took cover under a stand of

pines and hoisted my umbrella.

All along my wooded walk I glanced up from time to time to see its

bright red canopy with its ruffle of snow-colored dots. It made me smile

and hum -- at least at first it did. But the longer I walked, and the

more it snowed, the heavier my umbrella got. My arms ached and my chin

pressed into my chest as I labored to bear the weight of it.

But I made it home and up the porch steps to the door where my

watchful mother was waiting.

“Would you please take my umbrella? It is so heavy,” I said.

“I see it is,” said my mother. I heard a trace of laughter in her

voice.

She stepped out on the porch with me and took the umbrella from my

tired, gloved fists. She lowered it into my view.

Several inches of damp, new snow clung solidly to its dome. I felt my

eyes grow wide with surprise. I had unwittingly carried that load all the

way home.

I watched my mother tip my umbrella. She shook the snow to the ground.

I started to laugh. Then mother laughed. Together we laughed and laughed

and laughed.

* MICHELE MARR is a freelance writer and graphic designer from

Huntington Beach. She has been interested in religion and ethics for as

long as she can remember. She can be reached at o7

[email protected]