Foot of the Cross

I imagine the foot of the cross to be a messy place.

Piles of shame. Mounds of guilt. Pieces of worry, shards of anxiety, and endless scraps of suffering.

Bring them to the feet of Jesus. We’re told to do this. We sing about it and pray about it. I did just this morning, in fact.

But as someone who tends to make a hobby of overthinking things…like, it’s actually enjoyable for me to run stories through my mind, I never quite understood the method of packing up my cares and dropping them off like a checked bag I’d never see again. What if I wanted to revisit that one little thought, the worry that kept me up at night? Because what if I missed it?

This weight we carry sits heavier on our shoulders but instead of finding joy in giving it to the Healer, I find pride in thinking that my strength grows to bear it. I’ve got this. I’m strong. At least I like to think I am for a little while before I reluctantly give it to God and remember with each sore muscle that I was never meant to carry it at all.

So I give it to the one who welcomes my sorrow and sin with open arms. But I never forget to look back and snatch a little back to coddle my worry a little more. Give that one more night of anxiety and overthink that problem just a few times more.

But I’m finding that once I take my burdens to the foot of the cross, I can look up. I can see the one who died for me to take that messy pile in the first place. And with that, I can’t quite look away. The death he died really did pay it all. How insulting to think it was never enough.

He says to cast our cares upon him…not to cast them and then take them back.

At the foot of the cross is where my mess undeservingly meets holy ground. And if I only look up and never back, I think I’m forever changed.