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. 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.
The suitcase of guilt. The trunk of discontent. A backpack of anxiety and a hanging bag of grief. Add on a briefcase of perfectionism, an overnight bag of loneliness, and a duffel bag of fear. No wonder we are so tired at the end of the day.
Where do we turn for help? How about looking to an old friend, the twenty-third Psalm. . .