A Heavy Load

A Heavy Load

When I was in the fourth grade our class had a reading contest. The student who read the most pages over winter vacation would get a new box of school supplies the first day back. Now, if there is one thing I like more than reading, it’s school supplies; nothing was going to stand between me and winning.

I had two teachers in the fourth grade; it was an experiment with two classes sharing one large space, allowing kids to flow back and forth between lessons at their own pace and providing rich learning opportunities for them in the process. My teachers were Susan and Bob, two people who had a 70s vibe in most ways, including their dislike of the false sense of authority established by adults through the titles of Mr. and Mrs.

After announcing the contest and describing the coveted prize, Susan stepped back to reveal the shelves of books from which to choose. Because we were a combination class there were sixty of us, easily one hundred books lay before us. While the high achievers scrambled to be first to pick the longest books, and the less motivated among us did the same for the shorter books, I sat back and let them all choose. One by one the students went up to choose their book. As they did, Susan gave each student a book bag, a canvas one with some sort of happy face and slogan like, “I love to read!” I lay in wait.

“Nicole, come on up and get your book,” Bob called.

“I’d rather wait until after school, if that’s ok,” I replied. “That way I can take my time to choose from what is left.”

“Whatever works for you,” replied Bob; falling easily into the laid back way of being that allowed the little people their own autonomy.

As the day wound down and the bell signaled for every one to leave, I got my lunch box and my sweatshirt and headed up toward the books.

“Susan,” I said quietly. I was a quiet girl; social, a little too flirty for a nine year old, but generally quiet when it came to serious matters.

“Yes, Nicole? Are you ready to pick your book?”

“Well, yes. But I wonder something. If the goal is to read the most pages, would it be ok if I took more than one book?” She raised her eyebrows as if to say, “Well you little devil…”

Instead she said, “Of course.” With that, I took every book I could fit into my new book bag. That smiley face was busting at the seams.

Now, in addition to being quiet about serious matters, I was also very thin. I was of average height, although my legs took up over two thirds of my body, but my limbs were like sticks—bird legs I think I was called on more than one occasion. And, my mom always liked me to wear dresses to school, with matching bows of course. So here I am in December, two bird legs sticking out from under a little green dress, green ribbons braided into my hair, with my bird arms lugging a lunch box, a sweatshirt, and a bag stuffed with forty books.

I got to the corner and thought my arm was going to fall off--the kind of sensation you get when you are about to lose feeling but not quite, so it hurts like hell. The crossing guard looked a cross between amused and concerned.

“That’s quite a heavy load for a little lady like yourself,” he said, holding up the stop sign with one hand, calling me forth with his other, whistle half hanging out of his mouth and crinkly blue eyes smiling at me.

“Yeah, I have some work to do over vacation,” I replied.

“Well, good luck with all that; but lay some of those books down for goodness sake, that’s too much burden for one little girl to carry.”

“Ok,” I said, with zero intention of laying anything down before I got home. I may have had bird arms and bird legs and crazy ribbon hair, but I was strong and no one was going to think I couldn’t handle carrying all those books. When I got home I released my arms’ burdens onto my bed, picking up a new one: ambition. I sat on that bed for three days, emerging only for the bathroom and a little pasta, returning quickly to my stack. Until, on the third day, I was done. I returned to school that January, triumphant. I had, indeed, read the most pages. And, that school supply box was all mine.

***

That story has always stayed with me for a number of reasons: Bob and Susan’s respect for my peers and me, how they turned reading into something to be met with gusto, the box that now holds school supplies for my students when they win little contests in class, and for the kindly old gentleman who took interest in my heavy load and wished me well on my quest. Today I realized, twenty five years ago God sent me a message that I just today was able to hear.

I’ve carried this “load” my whole life. In my life’s smiley faced book bag are countless items I carry with me, most of them based on fear. Since I was very young I was preparing for disaster: a robber comes in and attacks my mom, how do I protect her? If I fail math and lose my scholarship, what do I do so I don’t let my family down? They go on and on, tragedies and stories of survival, preparing for everything that could possibly happen, all the while making sure no one around me knew the anxiety that dwelled within.

All of this up until this afternoon when I decided the time was now. It’s time to lay some of my books down, open my arms wide, and embrace the faith I say I have. I have to stop planning for trouble. I have to stop achieving at the sake of my own health. I have to trust myself and the people I love. I have to let go and surrender to what will be.

I’m still afraid. I’m afraid of a thousand things. But I refuse to internalize those fears any more. I’m releasing the things I can, and then looking the others straight in the eye. I won’t be afraid of you anymore, I can’t be. My body can’t take the burden of your weight any more. My heart and my mind and my spirit can’t take the weight of your burden any more.

This is a big step for me, one I don’t take lightly. One about which I’m sure I’ll falter. But, I have to remember that, even as strong as I am, I’m not strong enough to carry the weight of the world, so I have to put my book bag down.