The other night, I looked on as my husband tenderly hoisted my sleeping son out of our bed to carry him back to his own room. I watched as my little boy tensed up at first, but then completely relaxed as he realized that his daddy was carrying him. It reminded me of my own childhood, when I would fall asleep in the car coming home from somewhere and my mom or my dad would carry me inside and tuck me into bed. Even when I was probably awake enough to walk, I loved the feeling of being carried. I felt safe because I trusted the one carrying me.
And just watching my three year old softly curled up in my strong Husband's arms made me think about being carried. Moments of struggle throughout my life slowly drifted through my memory. Heartache. Brokenness. Grief. Even now, looking back, I seriously wonder how I ever survived some of these things without dying of a broken heart. And I believe the answer is...carried.
The thing about being carried though, is that we must allow it. We must depend on the person carrying us. It will do no good to thrash and struggle, to demand that we get through it on our own strength, to resist it because we have something to prove. We can feel safe in the arms of the One who knows the valleys, who intimately knows our hearts, who loves us enough to carry us if only we will let Him. The world is so broken and I am so thankful for the times when I didn't have to walk through it.
I was carried.
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