The Invitation Part 2
His burden is light on us. Our burdens weren't on him.
This story dramatizes the quality of Jesus and function of his atonement that I most admire.
[Part 1]
…In the next night’s dream they were eating bread and fish on the shore of a lake. “Must be your choice,” she said. He smiled, chewing. The pause was long enough to remind Amanda that it was her turn as interviewer.
She began with a few questions about world events and conditions—the sort of things she thought he would probably care about most—but his answers led her quite naturally to ask about the people in her life. It amazed Amanda to hear how well Jesus knew each of her family members and friends, how precise he was about what could help them be happier. Of course Amanda had always believed that he knew everyone and everything, so the fact itself was no surprise. But she had never felt so moved with compassion as when she heard Jesus describe their lives in such kind, wise detail—such patient desire for their welfare, despite how far their actions and thoughts may take them from him.
As they finished lunch he said, “I’m really glad we can talk like this. But I want you to know that I understand all of you—your not-so-good moments too. What’s the worst pain you’ve ever felt? I mean physically, emotionally, spiritually—anything.”
A few memories rushed to her mind, but before she could vocalize a response he put a hand on her shoulder and said, “Thanks for trusting me with them. See you tomorrow.”
The next day Amanda spent time hiking around the mountain woods in which the cabin and its unobtrusive neighbors were nestled. She saw several deer, a few fellow hikers, and a couple cars on the narrow, winding dirt road past the turnoff. Back at the cabin, as she read in her journals, she remembered moments of pain and wondered which ones would appear in her dream that night.
It began in her hospital bed that first long night after the crash. She’d fallen asleep while driving home during her sophomore year of college, hurtling off the freeway and rolling twice. A totaled Buick Century, a broken arm, nose, collarbone, and several ribs, an almost-boyfriend who just couldn’t make it down to visit her in the hospital—so many things hurt.
Then the memory of her surroundings sharpened. The bedside machines, the TV, the clatter and muted voices of hospital noise outside her door—all those elements came back with such familiarity. As did the pain in her knee, so badly bruised that she limped for two months afterward; the dull ache and itch underneath her armpit, and the jolt of pain when she tried to move her shoulder.
“Why am I dreaming this?” Amanda wondered aloud.
“So you can see that I know you,” came a voice from the other side of the room. Slowly tilting her head to look over, she saw the Savior on a bed, the divider curtain pulled back. His bandages, arm sling, and puffy blackened eyes mirrored hers. “It hurts just to breathe!” he said. “But you’re right—the worst pain is definitely the knee.”
In the next scene, Amanda was in her room as a sixteen-year-old, huddled on her bed and sobbing after breaking up for the final time with her first boyfriend. An hour before then her mom had come in, spoken a few words to soothe her, and just stroked her hair. But now, as she lay grieving the loss of someone whom she felt could never be replaced, a presence joined her. It was Jesus, sitting on her bed, head bowed, tears falling into the hands he’d folded in his lap.
Seeing him so sad surprised her to the point that she momentarily forgot her own grief. After several seconds he wiped his eyes and looked up at her. “There’s nothing harder than losing someone for good, is there?” he said, his voice quavering.
The experiences changed maybe half a dozen more times: Amanda’s childhood home when she stayed up all night with a toothache; her kitchen as she cleaned up, in shock after a terrible argument with Theo; the chapel at her dad’s funeral. As she briefly relived each moment the anguish came back not in memory but in all her senses. And in each experience, when she looked and saw the Savior pacing the floor, or bracing himself against the kitchen countertop, or gazing into the open casket during the family viewing, she felt it was as real for him as it was for her. He wasn’t there only to comfort her, or to deftly stack her burdens along with those of all humanity piled on his infinitely capable shoulders. He was there to feel them as she did, to be just as shaken as she had been.
The last of these painful scenes dissolved, and Amanda found herself seated at a table on the patio of an old Mediterranean-style restaurant on a hill overlooking the sea. No one else was there; the only movement on the whole hillside was the breeze ruffling the grass and trees beneath her. A few low clouds made shadows on the glinting water. After some time watching the small waves alone, she looked over and saw that Jesus was sitting next to her, gazing at the view.
With a rush of love and gratitude Amanda said, “Thank you for going through all those things with me. I’m just so…glad you know what my life is like.”
“You’re welcome,” he said with a nod. “I’m glad you’re starting to know what mine is like.”