When the deadlines weigh heavy and the decisions are too big, I turn again like the child not sure what to make of the sticky mess, hands held out for help, looking up into His face. And as I become like the child and lean hard into Him, the poem comes to mind, the one that my grandmother gave to a friend. The one that, ten years later, that friend gave back to me as I left, still exhausted, for what would be my final months overseas.

Rest here with me, won’t you, and lean hard?

“Child of My love, lean hard,
And let Me feel the pressure of thy care;
I know thy burden, child, I shaped it;
Poised it in My own hand, made no proportion
in its weight to thine unaided strength;
For even as I laid it on, I said
I shall be near, and while she leans on Me,
This burden shall be Mine, not hers;
So shall I keep My child within the circling
arms of My own love.

Here lay it down, nor fear to impose it on a
shoulder which upholds the government of worlds.
Yet closer come; thou art not near enough;
I would embrace thy burden so I might feel My
child reposing on My breast.
Thou lovest Me? I know it. Doubt not then;
But, loving Me, Lean Hard.”

 (Octavius Winslow)