‘Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.’ Then the angel departed from her. Luke 1: 38

As I walk in the nature preserve each morning, words buzz about my brain. I compose as I walk most days and find that the rhythm of my steps works its own kind of magic as I write. In the past week, the lyrics of a song kept building until “Mary’s Psalm” was born–lyrics with hopes of finding a melody one day. The song opens with this stanza:

There is wonder here
On this midnight clear
And I will not fear
What I will carry

Every Advent season, Mary’s resolute acceptance of all she would carry astounds me. She carries the child in her womb, the incarnate Son of God. She carries the suffering servant who would live among us, teaching and healing, bringing God to earth. And she carries our salvation, the Christ who was born to die for us. Though the weight of all she carries should crush her, Mary faces the angel Gabriel and concedes: “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me, according to your word.”

Ask most mothers about what they’ve carried–and continue to carry–and they’ll recount the weight of their respective journeys. They’ll tell you much (perhaps more than you’ll ever want to know) about their pregnancies and deliveries, about their hopes and fears, about their subsequent joy and ongoing concern for their child’s well-being. They’ll tell you much about the emotional and spiritual weight of raising a child, the crucible of protecting a child against all the forces which threaten to destroy him or her, the sleepess nights, and the hours of prayer. Still, they soldier on because the load they carry is for life, through good times and bad times, in sickness and in health. And this consent is both sweet weight and release.

I have a friend and former co-worker, Ariann, whose consent to carry has inspired many. Five years ago, she and her husband, Drew, were told that their unborn son suffered from hydrochephalus, that he would only live a short time, perhaps minutes, if he made it to term and survived birth. Upon hearing such news, some couples would have chosen to terminate the pregnancy, sparing themselves and their unborn child further suffering. But Arianne and Drew said, “let it be with me, according to your word.” They chose to carry the sweet weight of Matthew to term and to love him for as long as they could. To say that their story is miraculous is, indeed, an understatement. For not only did Matthew survive his birth, he survived several brain shunt operations and lives today as a spunky and beloved big brother to Aurora. Nicknamed Matthew the Great for his tenacity and spirit, he continues to bless and inspire many. Understandably, Ariann and Drew carry concerns for his future health and well-being as Matthew will inevitably face other surgeries. They live with gratitude, though, a joyful testament to their faith.

In Tim O’Brien’s famous collection of short stories, The Things They Carried, he chronicles a platoon of American soldiers fighting on the ground in the Vietnam War.  He writes: “They carried all they could bear, and then some, including a silent awe for the terrible power of the things they carried.” In truth, perhaps we all carry what we can bear. Perhaps we all carry a silent awe for the terrible power of those things we carry. For, in truth, we all carry loads that bring us both joy and pain. We carry plans and dreams that challenge us and may even threaten to bury us under their weight. We carry hope throughout our ordinary days, believing that the world can be a better, brighter place for all. We carry grief as we watch those we love suffer and die, as we watch our world collapse under the weight of conflict, war, and natural disaster. We carry time, measuring our days against the running clock of mortality. And we carry faith, which buoys and burdens us, as we seek to live both in this world and not of it.

Our consent to carry these things is sometimes resolute and sometimes tremulous. There are moments in our lives during which we experience great peace as we proclaim, “Let it be unto me, according to your word.” And there are other moments during which we quake, mouthing the words we hope to believe, the words by which we hope to live: “Let it be unto me, according to your word.” For we want to take up our crosses, and we want to lay them down. We want to carry the weight of our faith, and we want to unburden ourselves of it. In our human frailty, we can only cry out, “Lord, I believe; help my unbelief!” (Matthew 9:24)

In this season of Advent, Mary’s words convict me to consider all that we carry. Much of what we carry is unseen, hopes and fears and doubts that shelter in unspoken prayers. But make no mistake, the weight is there. Sometimes it grounds us in peace and joy, while other times, it buries us in pain and fear. Even as a teenage girl, Mary understood that her load would be lightened only if she turned to God. By her own efforts, she couldn’t bear the weight. By our own efforts, neither can we.

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” Matthew 11: 28-30