The Backpack

"My pain," she said.

I remember when she said it, but the details are foggy now. It was five years ago and she was still in high school, barely old enough to understand the weight of the world, yet already carrying more than she should. She’d gone through a bad breakup, and our divorce was fresh, raw and unhealed. "My pain keeps me from doing this or that," my daughter told me, like it was something she owned. Like her backpack or her phone. As if it were a medical diagnosis that just lived with her now, part of her daily reality.

I remember how it stopped me in my tracks because I understood. I still do. I carry pain too, lugging it around like an invisible weight, strapped to my shoulders. It flares up now and then, just to remind me it’s there and if I don’t keep my eyes fixed on dealing with it, it will crawl back up and take the wheel.

Pain has a way of turning into something else if left unchecked. It festers, curls inward, and sharpens into anger. It lashes out at those closest to us, slipping out in moments we wish we could take back. We like to call it pet peeves or say we’re just exhausted, but the truth is, pain mismanaged becomes a weapon.  Sometimes its pointed outward, sometimes inward. And managing it? That’s work. Hard, gritty, unglamorous work. It takes focus, constant awareness, and grace. So much grace.

In my life, pain manifests in a hundred different ways. It triggers overeating, sleepless nights, and a short temper that I can’t always hold back. That, in turn, sparks self-hatred. It’s a vicious cycle, spiraling down unless I face it head-on. Because here’s the truth: dealing with pain isn’t a one-time event. It’s not a single decision. It’s a daily choice, a moment-by-moment surrender. Especially when it’s tied to the big things like divorce, grief, regret, or loneliness. These aren’t neatly packaged issues you can set on a shelf and forget about.

The easier path is distraction. We drown ourselves in whatever numbs the ache. Some people drink, others scroll mindlessly through their screens, and some might reach for that bag of Cheetos. It feels good. Until it doesn’t. Until the moment passes and we’re left with nothing but the aftermath. Angry words that have to be mended. Regret that clings to us like smoke. Another sleepless night, wondering how it all spiraled again.

Pain unacknowledged doesn’t just disappear. It transforms. It finds new ways to make itself known, and often it hurts the ones we love the most. I know this. I’ve lived this. And the only way I’ve found to truly manage it, the only way I’ve found any sense of healing, is to take it to my Healer.  I’ve learned I can’t fix this on my own. I’ve tried. I’ve white-knuckled my way through, thinking sheer willpower could muscle me through it. But pain has roots, deep ones, and digging them out takes more than just determination. It takes surrender.

The world is full of things that promise relief, but they only last for a moment. True healing is something I’ve only found in the hands of the One who can hold all my pain without breaking.

The Roadside Cry

The sun hung low over the dusty streets of Jericho, casting long shadows that stretched like fingers across the worn cobblestones. The marketplace bustled with noise.  Vendors shouting prices, children laughing, animals braying, but none of it mattered to Bartimaeus. He sat, as he always did, by the side of the road, his back pressed against the sunbaked wall, legs crossed beneath him, hands outstretched. His cloak, frayed at the edges and heavy with dust, pooled around him like the remnants of a life unraveled.

He couldn’t see the faces of those who passed by, but he’d learned to read footsteps.  The hesitant shuffle of a woman burdened by grief, the sharp stride of a merchant with no time for beggars, the unsteady gait of a man who drank away his wages. Bartimaeus had learned to listen. 

He was blind. But blindness was only the beginning of his pain.

There were whispers about him, unspoken accusations that perhaps his condition was a curse, a mark of sin. His father, Timaeus, had been a respected man, a merchant with influence. But Bartimaeus? He was just another beggar, just another burden on the edge of society. The weight of shame settled like ash on his soul, too heavy to brush away.

But if you’d asked Bartimaeus why he was blind, why darkness shrouded his days and why hope seemed like a distant memory, he wouldn’t have been able to tell you. Was it his fault? His family’s? Some divine punishment? He didn’t know. He couldn’t know. All he understood was the pain of it. The feeling of being trapped in a body that betrayed him, in a world that ignored him.

And then he heard His name.

Jesus of Nazareth.

The crowd thickened, voices rising with excitement. Bartimaeus leaned forward, heart pounding. He had heard the stories.  Whispers of healing, rumors of the lame walking, the deaf hearing, the dead rising. He didn’t know if they were true. He didn’t know if it even mattered. All he knew was that there was power in that name.

He gripped his cloak tighter, knuckles white, and sucked in a breath. Then, with all the desperation of a soul on the edge, he cried out, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!”

The crowd turned on him, like they always did. Someone hissed for him to be quiet, others shoved him aside. “Shut up, beggar! He has more important things to do than deal with you!”

But Bartimaeus had learned long ago that pain ignored only grows louder. So, he shouted again, louder this time, voice cracking with the weight of his anguish. “Son of David, have mercy on me!”

And then everything stopped.

The crowd hushed, footsteps stilled. Bartimaeus held his breath, ears straining to hear what was happening. His heart pounded so loudly he wondered if the whole city could hear it.

And then came the voice. “Call him.”

For a moment, he didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Someone nudged him. “Get up! He’s calling for you.”

Bartimaeus stumbled to his feet, nearly tripping over his own cloak. His hands shook, grasping for balance, for something solid to hold onto. He threw off his cloak, casting aside everything he owned.  His only comfort, his only security, because he didn’t want anything to hold him back. Not now. Not from this.

Guided by voices and hurried hands, he was led forward until he could feel the crowd parting around him. The air grew still, heavy with expectation. Bartimaeus swallowed hard, his mouth dry, his hands trembling.

Then came the question. “What do you want me to do for you?”

Bartimaeus’s throat tightened. He didn’t know why he was blind. He didn’t know if he’d been cursed or if life had simply been unkind. But he knew one thing, he didn’t want this anymore. He didn’t want the darkness. He didn’t want the shame. He didn’t want the brokenness.

So, he whispered the boldest words he could muster: “Rabbi, I want to see.”

There it was. Everything that made him miserable, everything that held him captive, laid bare before the Healer. He didn’t have it all figured out. He didn’t understand the reasons or the origins of his pain. He didn’t come with a list of explanations.  He just brought his need. His raw, aching need.

And Jesus answered. “Go, your faith has healed you.”

In an instant, light exploded behind his eyes. Colors he had only dreamed of flooded his vision.  The piercing blue of the sky, the rich red of merchant stalls, the golden sand shifting beneath his feet. He blinked, staggered back, hands clutching at his face. He could see.

The crowd murmured, voices blending together like music. But Bartimaeus didn’t hear them. His eyes were locked on the face of the One who had healed him, likely the first thing he saw.  The One who hadn’t required him to understand it all, but simply to ask.

And he followed. Bartimaeus followed Him down that road, eyes wide open, pain left behind on the dust where his cloak lay forgotten.

The Cloak We Carry

Bartimaeus sat on the edge of Jericho’s bustling streets, day after day, shrouded in his cloak. To most, it was just a piece of fabric, worn, dust-covered, and fraying at the edges.  But to Bartimaeus, it was more than that. It was his survival. His identity. His protection.

In those times, a beggar’s cloak was more than just a garment; it was a symbol that granted him permission to sit and ask for mercy. It marked him as someone in need, someone broken. His cloak was his license to beg and his shield against the chill of the night. It wrapped around him like a second skin, threadbare but familiar.

That’s the thing about pain. Over time, it becomes part of us, almost like a garment we wear. We drape it over our shoulders, tucking it around us because it’s familiar. Sometimes, we wear it so long that it begins to feel like part of our identity. We learn to function with it, to move with its weight, and even to protect it. It may be heavy, uncomfortable, and threadbare, but it’s ours.

Sometimes, we go even a step further.  We protect it. We shield it, cocoon it, nurture it even. It sounds irrational, but somewhere deep down, we convince ourselves that we deserve it. It’s almost like we wear our suffering as proof of the consequences we think we’re supposed to endure. I made bad choices. I hurt people. I failed. This is my punishment.

We hold onto it because letting it go feels like we’re sidestepping justice, as if suffering long enough will somehow balance the scales of what’s been done or what we’ve done to others. If we hurt long enough, maybe the debt will be paid. So we clutch that cloak tighter. We sit in the dust with it wrapped around us, convincing ourselves that this is our place. This is what we deserve.

Bartimaeus likely faced that same temptation. Sitting by the roadside for years, listening to people whisper that his blindness was his fault, that his suffering was a mark of God’s disfavor. How many days did he pull that cloak tighter around his shoulders, convinced that it was the only life he’d ever know?

But here’s the truth.  That is not what God desires for us.

Jesus came to Jericho that day not to observe Bartimaeus in his suffering, but to call him out of it. He didn’t walk by and say, “Well, this is just your lot in life. You’ll have to learn to endure it.” He called him forward, asked him what he wanted, and when Bartimaeus said he wanted to see, Jesus gave him his sight.

God’s heart is not for us to live in perpetual pain. Yes, there are consequences to our choices, and yes, this world is broken. But suffering isn’t the final word. Jesus came to bring restoration, healing, and hope. The lie we often believe is that we have to live with the weight of our mistakes forever, that we’re supposed to sit by the roadside, wrapped in our pain like a badge of honor. But that’s not redemption. That’s bondage.

My favorite part of the passage, even more than the physical healing, is reading that Bartimaeus threw off his cloak. When Jesus called him, he didn’t hesitate. He stood up, threw off the very thing that had defined him for years, and stumbled forward into the unknown. He didn’t know what healing would look like. He didn’t even know if it was possible. But he was willing to let go of what he’d always known to reach for what might be.

I can’t help but wonder, what are we holding onto because it’s familiar? What have we wrapped around ourselves because we’ve worn it for so long, it feels like a part of us? Regret? Shame? Fear? Maybe it’s something that happened to us. Maybe it’s something we did to ourselves. And maybe we hold onto it because we think it’s what we deserve.

But it’s not.

Jesus didn’t tell Bartimaeus to pick up his cloak and learn to carry it better. He didn’t ask him to endure it just a little longer. He called him forward, stripped away the labels, and healed him completely. He wanted to. Not because Bartimaeus deserved it, but because that’s who Jesus is.

He’s still that way.

I want colors I’ve only dreamed of to flood my vision again. I want to see beauty where pain has stolen it, hope where despair has settled. I want to shed the cloak of suffering I’ve carried far too long and walk down that road, eyes wide open, fully restored.

I’m learning that we don’t have to have it all figured out.  I know I don't. I know my daughter doesn't.    But one thing we do know?  We need to bring it, all of it, to the One who knows how to heal it.