Today’s post was written by blogger Linda Waltersdorf Cobourn.

Carry one another’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.

(Galatians 6:2, NIV)

“My grandmother used to do that,” the woman said, stopping next to the bench where my daughter and I sat outside Temple University Hospital. We were taking advantage of  the sunshine on a warm spring day while we waited for word on my husband’s latest surgery.

“That’s nice,” I said. I looked down at my knitting, and hoped the woman would move along. I was too worried about what was happening in the operating room to talk. 

The woman’s face fell. She nodded and moved to a bench across from us, sitting down with a heavy sigh. 

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“She looks lonely,” said my daughter, her hands full of her own knitting project. In the last few years, we had learned to keep a “go bag” of yarn, needles, and patterns handy for emergency room runs. 

“I’m sure she’s fine,” I said. But Bonnie was right; the woman did look lonely. I recognized the weight she carried in the slump of her shoulders and the droop of her head.

“She’s all by herself and we’re together. Doesn’t the Bible say we should share our burdens?” my daughter asked.

I squirmed on the hard wooden bench, knowing Bonnie was right. It’s just that you’ve given me so many burdens  to carry, Lord.  There’s no room to carry someone else’s. The words of Galatians 6:2  reverberated in my brain.  Carry one another’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ. 

 Reluctantly, I smiled at the woman across from us. 

She smiled back, and rose from her bench. 

“She’s coming over,” said Bonnie, who made room between us. 

Great, I thought.  She probably has a sad story to tell.  

“Hi,” said the woman, sitting down.  “I’m Mary. I wish I could knit.” She gave a great sigh and tears formed in her eyes.  

“Hi,” said my daughter. “I’m Bonnie. My mom is Linda. Knitting is what we do while Dad’s in surgery. “

“At least you’re together,” Mary said. “I’m all alone. I had heart surgery three months ago and I came in today for a checkup.” She groped in her purse for a tissue to dab at her eyes. “Neither of my children know I had surgery. We don’t talk.”

Bonnie and I stared at each other. Oh, Father. Thank you for my own children and their support. 

I thought back to the night the pickup truck ran the red light on Paoli Pike and broadsided Ron’s Taurus. My children and I sat in a lonely room outside of the trauma surgery, waiting to know if Ron would survive his injuries. Our burdens were many. 

The  elevator door opened with a “ding” and two deacons from our church stepped out with thermoses of hot coffee and a bag of sandwiches. “We’ve come to wait it out with you,” one of them said. A few moments later, two ladies from our congregation arrived with soft blankets and hugs. Still later, our pastor stepped off the elevator. 

The room no longer felt lonely. 

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The members of our congregation came to bear our burdens. They continued to do so,  offering us casseroles and rides to hospitals and lawn mowing services and visits to Ron’s bedside. God urged me to follow their example. 

I patted Mary’s shoulder. “Would you like to tell us about it?”

Mary poured out her story to us, one of broken relationships and stubborn pride. We listened and Bonnie reached into her knitting bag and brought out some pale green yarn. With deft fingers, she cast stitches onto a needle and knitted while Mary talked.

God did not intend for any of us to walk through a crisis alone, but to share our burdens with one another. It was what the congregants at our church did for us too many times to count.

As my daughter and I sat on either side of Mary, I remembered the story of Moses whose raised arms ensured victory for the Israelites when they fought the Amalekites (Exodus 17:11-13, NIV). When Moses grew tired, his arms heavy,  Aaron and Hur came to his aid, each of them holding an arm and bearing  some of the weight. 

Despite the difficulties of the last years, God had been good to us. There was always someone to share my burden.

An hour later, Mary looked at her watch. “Oh, my,” she said. “I need to get home. I have a little dog.”  My daughter held out the green knitted bracelet she had completed and slipped it on Mary’s wrist.

Photo by Lisa Fotios on pexels.com

“Green is for hope,” Bonnie said. “Mom and I make prayer shawls for our church. The colors mean things.” She smiled. “I want you to have hope. God will always be with you, even when you feel alone.” 

Mary fingered the hand-knit bracelet. “I’m going to go home and call my kids and  tell them about my heart surgery. Maybe one of them will come with me next time.” She stood and leaned over to give us hugs. “And I’m going to learn to knit!”

We never saw Mary again, but Bonnie kept a scrap of the green yarn on the handle of her  “go bag” to remind us to  pray for her.  Our  knitting became our ministry.  God would often send someone to us who needed some prayer, some encouragement,  and someone to share their burden, if only for an hour. Following the admonition to demonstrate love for others (John 3: 16-18), we began to look for someone who needed hope. We listened. We connected. We made ourselves available. We gave them a prayer bracelet to remind them that God could share their burdens, keeping a piece of yarn and praying for them. In many different waiting rooms in many hospitals, the connection always began with the same comment: 

“My grandmother used to do that!”

Photo by cottonbro studio. pexels.com

Linda Cobourn picked up a pencil when she was nine and hasn’t stopped writing since, but she never expected to write about adult autism and grief. When her husband died after a long illness, she began a remarkable journey of faith with her son, an adult with Asperger’s syndrome. The author of Tap Dancing in Church, Crazy: A Diary, and Scenes from a Quirky Life, she holds an MEd in Reading and an EdD in Literacy. Dr. Cobourn also writes for Aspirations, a newsletter for parents of autistic offspring. Her work in progress, tentatively titled Finding Father: A Journey of Faith on the Autism Spectrum, chronicles her son’s unique grief journey. She can be contacted on her blog, Quirky, and her Amazon author page.