SHORT STORY

Once upon a time, there was a little girl with a backpack.

It was a good backpack. Sturdy, well-loved, always a little bit full. The girl had a big imagination, and she loved to do all kinds of things, so she carried everything she might need. Balls and books, crayons and paper, glue and little treasures she found along the way. She liked being prepared. She liked having what she needed.

One day, she was playing with her friends. The day before had been full of laughter and games, the kind of day you assume will happen again tomorrow.

But the next day, something changed. They left her out. Not in a loud or obvious way. Nothing she could point to exactly. Just small things. Quiet things. The kind of things that make you question yourself more than anyone else.

The little girl felt sad and confused. She replayed it over and over in her mind, trying to figure out what she had done wrong. And though she hadn’t added anything new to her backpack, she felt a strange heaviness settle into it, as if something had been placed inside without her seeing. She adjusted the straps and kept going.

The little girl grew. She grew stronger, more capable. Her backpack grew with her, filled with new and useful things: sports shoes, journals, pens, scriptures, a laptop. She made new friends. She learned new skills. For a while, the backpack even felt lighter, despite everything she added to it. She thought maybe she had figured it out. But then, one day, she got sick.

At first, she tried to push through it. Then she tried to fix it. Then she tried everything. Months and years passed. She searched and studied and worked so hard to get better. She eventually found some answers. Help came. Things improved, at least a little. But her backpack? It felt heavier than ever. She didn’t understand.

Years went by, and the weight didn’t go away. She tried to become stronger so she could carry it better. She followed the rules. She did the right things. She disciplined herself. She changed how she ate, how she lived, how she moved through the world. Still, the weight pressed down.

Some days, it was manageable. Other days, it felt like it was pulling her toward the ground. “Why am I so weak?” she wondered. “This shouldn’t be this hard.” “I must be doing something wrong.”

The girl grew up. She became a woman. A mother. She loved her family with everything she had, and motherhood brough new, and unexpected challenges. Her backpack grew heavier still. Some days, it felt so heavy she could barely stand. Her shoulders ached. Her heart ached more. And what confused her most was this: She wasn’t putting anything new into it. Her days of dreaming, creating, and collecting tools were on pause for a season, so why did her backpack keep getting heavier?

One day, the weight became too much to carry. She sank down where she stood, exhausted. Her body hurt. Her chest felt tight. Her thoughts were louder than ever. She had tried everything she knew how to do. And it wasn’t enough. “I can’t carry this anymore,” she whispered. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. Please… help me.” It was the only thing she had left to try, so she prayed.

At first, there was only stillness. She closed her eyes tightly, feeling the weight press in on her, like darkness creeping closer and closer. But then… something shifted.

It was subtle at first. A warmth. Like sunlight breaking through clouds. Not blinding, just enough to feel. And then she heard it. Soft. Steady. “Look inside your backpack.” 

She hesitated. She already knew what was in there, didn’t she? Just the things she had gathered. The things she needed. But the voice didn’t rush her.

So slowly, she reached behind her and pulled the backpack forward. Her hands trembled as she unzipped it and looked inside. And then she froze. Because beneath the tools and the toys and the things she had carefully chosen… there were rocks. So many rocks. Large. Jagged. Heavy.

Her breath caught. “How did these get here?” she whispered. She reached in and tried to lift one, but it wouldn’t budge. As she looked closer, she noticed something else. Words were carved into them: "You are not enough.", "This is your fault.", "If you were better, this wouldn’t be happening.", "You’re the problem.", "You should have done more."

Her chest tightened. “I didn’t put these here,” she said, her voice small. “I didn’t choose these.”

“I know,” the voice said gently. She turned. And there, beside her, was the Savior. Not distant. Not disappointed. Just there. Like He had always been.

He knelt beside her, close enough that she could feel His presence before she fully looked at Him. "You’ve been carrying these for a long time,” He said. 

She nodded, tears slipping down her face. “I’ve tried to get rid of them,” she said. “I’ve tried to be strong enough. I thought if I did everything right, they would go away.”

There was a quiet pause. Then He asked, softly, “What do you want me to do for you?”

The question caught her off guard. For a moment, she didn’t know how to answer. Not because she didn’t feel anything, but because she felt everything. The weight of the rocks in her backpack was crushing. She looked down at the ground. “I don’t know,” she whispered.

She considered His question for another moment and her voice trembled. “I’m tired of carrying all of this. I’m not strong enough. I can’t keep going like this. I’ve tried to fix it, but I don’t know how.” She swallowed hard. “Can you help me?" The words felt small as they left her mouth. Vulnerable. Almost shameful.

For a moment, He didn’t respond. So she looked up. His eyes were filled with tears. And there was something else, too, a quiet, steady kind of joy. As if He felt every bit of her pain, and had been waiting for this moment for a long time. Not for her to be stronger. Not for her to have it figured out. Just for her to come to Him.

He slowly reached into the backpack and picked up one of the rocks. “This one,” He said softly, “was never true.” He touched it, and it crumbled. Not all at once, but slowly, like it had already been breaking apart for a long time. She watched in disbelief.

Another rock. “You were never the problem.” That one cracked down the middle.

Another. “You were just hurt.”, he said as it softened in His hands.

Not every rock disappeared. Some remained. She looked at them, confused. “What about these?” she asked. He didn’t rush to remove them. “These are real,” He said. “They came from real pain.” 

She swallowed. “I don’t want them,” she whispered.

“I know,” He said gently. “But they won’t always feel like this.”

He placed His hand over one of the remaining stones, and though it stayed whole, something about it changed. It didn’t look as sharp. Not as heavy.

“These will not crush you,” He said. “They will become something different. In time, they will help you understand, love, and carry others.”

She looked at Him, unsure. “I don’t feel strong enough for that.”

“You’re not meant to do it alone,” He said. He reached for the backpack. Not to take it away. But to lift it with her. The weight didn’t disappear. But it shifted.

For the first time, it didn’t feel like it was pulling her into the ground. He stood beside her, steady and sure, carrying what she could not. She took a breath. Then another. And slowly, she stood.

The path ahead hadn’t changed. The backpack was still there. Some of the rocks remained. But everything felt different. Because she finally understood. The weight had never meant she was weak. It only meant she had been carrying it alone. And she wasn’t alone anymore.