The Cross That Carries Me

We always hear it—
“Carry your Cross.”
But how do you know
if you’re carrying one,
if you’ve dropped it,
or if you’ve silently refused it?
So I turn to the Cross itself.
I dare to ask.
I dare to listen.

Who are You?
Are You just wood and nails,
or are You the echo of my soul’s weight?
What do You look like?
Are You a sickness,
a heartbreak,
a wound nobody sees?
Or are You hidden in the silence
where I choose love when it hurts?

How do I know I’m holding You?
Because my shoulders ache?
Because my plans crumble?
Because I’m misunderstood
even when I meant only good?

Or is it in the restless nights
when prayer feels unanswered,
yet I whisper Your name anyway?
Is it in the letting go of dreams
I thought were mine to keep,
only to find Your fingerprints
on the pieces I surrender?
Is it in the unseen sacrifices—
the smile I give through tears,
the forgiveness that costs my pride,
the patience that breaks me open?

And maybe the Cross answers back,
not in thunder, not in lightning,
but in a whisper only a weary heart can hear:
“You know you are carrying Me
when love costs you something—
and you still choose it.”

From that moment,
I no longer fear my Cross.
I no longer argue with it.
I simply walk with it.
Because the Cross I question—
is the Cross that has always carried me.
And when I finally see that,
only then I know—
I am not dragging You.
I am walking with You.