EXCERPTS

Traveling Light: Releasing the Burdens You Were Never Intended to Bear

By Max Lucado

The 23^rd Psalm

If you’ve ever attended a memorial service, you’ve heard the words. If you’ve walked through a cemetery, you’ve read them. It’s quoted at the gravesides of paupers, carved on the headstones of kings. Those how quote no scripture can remember this scripture, the one about the valley and the shadow and the shepherd.

Why? Why are these words so treasures? Why is this verse so beloved? I can think of a couple of reasons. By virtue of this psalm, David grants us two important reminders that can help us surrender our fear of the grave.

We all have to face it. In a life marked by doctor appointments, dentist appointments, and school appointments, there is one appointment that none of us will miss, the appointment with death…The wise remember the brevity of life. Exercise might buy us a few more heartbeats. Medicine may grant us a few more breaths. But in the end, there is an end. And the best way to face life is to be honest about death. David was. He may have slain Goliath, but he had no illusions about sidestepping the giant of death. And though his first reminder sobers us up, his second reminder encourages us: We don’t have to face death alone. David’s implied message is subtle but crucial. Don’t face death without facing God. Don’t even speak of death without speaking to God. He and he alone can guide you through the valley. Others may speculate or aspire, but only God knows the way to get you home. And only God is committed to getting you there safely.

When my daughters were younger, we enjoyed many fun afternoons in the swimming pool. Just like all of us, they had to overcome their fears in order to swim deep. It’s one thing to swim on the surface; it’s another to plunge down to the bottom. I mean, who knows what kind of dragons and serpents dwell in the depths of an eight-foot pool? You and I know there is no evil to fear, but a six-year-old doesn’t. A child feels the same way about the deep that you and I feel about death. We aren’t sure what awaits us down there.

I didn’t want my daughters to be afraid of the deep end, so with each I played Shamu the whale. My daughter would be the trainer. I would be Shamu. She would pinch her nose and put her arm around my neck, and then we down we would go. Deep, deep, deep until we could touch the bottom of the pool. Then up we would explode, breaking the surface. After several plunges they realized they had nothing to fear. They feared no evil. Why? Because I was with them.

And when God calls us into the deep valley of death, he will be with us. Dare we think that he would abandon us in the moment of death? Would a father force his child to swim the deep alone? Would the shepherd require his sheep to journey to the highlights alone? Of course not. Would God require his child to journey to eternity alone? Absolutely not! He is with you!

Traveling Light

I don’t know how to travel light. I don’t know how to travel without granola bars, sodas, and rain gear. I don’t know how to travel without flashlights and a generator and a global tracking system. I don’t know how to travel without an ice chest of wieners. What if I stumble upon a backyard barbecue? To bring nothing to the party would be rude . . .

I need to learn to travel light. You’re wondering why I can’t . . . I’d like to inquire the same of you. Haven’t you been known to pick up a few bags? Odds are, you did this morning. Somewhere between the first step on the floor and the last step out the door, you grabbed some luggage. You stepped over to the baggage carousel and loaded up. Don’t remember doing so? That’s because you did it without thinking. Don’t remember seeing a baggage terminal? That’s because the carousel is not the one in the airport; it’s the one in the mind. And the bags we grab are not made of leather; they’re made of burdens.

Traveling Light excerpts/page two

The Burden of a Lesser God

In the arena of unnecessary luggage, the psalmist begins with the weightiest: the refashioned god. One who looks nice but does little. God as:

A genie in a bottle. Convenient. Congenial. Need a parking place, date, field goal made or missed? All you do is rub the bottle and poof—it’s yours. And, what’s even better, this god goes back into the bottle after he’s done.

A sweet grandpa. So soft hearted. So wise. So kind. But very, very, very old. Grandpas are great when they are awake, but they tend to doze off when you need them.

A busy dad. Leaves on Monday, returns on Saturdays. Lots of road trips and business meetings. He’ll show up on Sunday, however; so clean up and look spiritual. On Monday, be yourself again. He’ll never know.

Ever held these views of God? If so, you know the problems they cause. A busy dad doesn’t have time for your questions. A kind grandpa is too weak to carry your load. And if your god is a genie in a bottle, then you are greater than he is. He comes and goes at your command. A god who looks nice but does little.

The Burden of Grief

Carlos Andres Baisdon-Nino lay down with his favorite Bible storybook. He began with the first chapter and turned every page until the end. When he finished, he blew his good-night kisses to Mami and Papi, to his three “ninas,” and then, as always he blew one to Papa Dios. He closed his eyes, drifted off to sleep, and awoke in Heaven. Carlos was three years old.

When Tim and Betsa, his parents, and I met to plan the funeral, they wanted me to watch a video of Carlos. “You’ve got to see him dancing,” Tim told me. One look and I could see why. What little Carlos did to the rhythm of a Latin song can’t be described with words. He shook from top to bottom. His feet moved, his hands bounced, his head swayed. You got the impression that his heart rate had switched over to his native Colombian beat. We laughed, the three of us did. And in the laughter, for just a moment, Carlos was with us. For just a moment there was no leukemia, syringes, blankets, or chemotherapy. There was no stone to carve or grave to dig. There was just Carlos. And Carlos was just dancing.

The Burden of Doubt

God is the God who follows. I wonder . . . have you sensed him following you? We often miss him. Like Eric, we don’t know our Helper when he is near. But he comes. Through the kindness of a stranger. The majesty of a sunset. The mystery of romance. Through the question of a child or the commitment of a spouse. Through a word well spoken or a touch well timed, have you sensed his presence?

If so, then release your doubts. Set them down. Be encumbered by them no longer. You are no candidate for insecurity. You are no longer a client of timidity. You can trust God. He has given his love to you; why don’t you give you doubts to him?

The Burden of Loneliness (pg. 108)

Bags of loneliness show up everywhere. They litter floors of boardrooms and clubs. We drag them into parties and usually drag them back out. You’ll spot them near the desk of the over worker, beside the table of the overeater, and on the nightstand of the one-night stand. We’ll try anything to unload our loneliness. This is one bag we want to drop quickly.

But should we? Should we be so quick to drop it? Rather than turn from loneliness, what if we turned toward it? Could it be that loneliness is not a curse but a gift? A gift from God?

Wait a minute, Max. That can’t be. Loneliness heavies my heart. Loneliness leaves me empty and depressed. Loneliness is anything but a gift. You may be right, but work with me for a moment. I wonder if loneliness is God’s way of getting our attention.

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