Something quite crazy but brilliant occurred yesterday, and it set my mind alight once I started reflecting on the experience. I had some time owed back to me at work, so instead of wasting the lovely weather, I decided to take an extended lunch break and spend it in the church garden. The serenity of that place has always been a source of peace for me, and with the sun shining, it felt like the perfect retreat from the busyness of life.
Within ten minutes of settling into my camping chair, absorbing the stillness, I was startled to see an older man with a beard appear on the garden path leading to the church, dragging a massive wooden cross behind him. It was not the kind of thing one expects to see on a casual stroll, even on the way to a church. The sight was jarring yet oddly compelling. He was visibly struggling, the sheer weight of the cross making each step an effort. Without hesitation or much thought, I got up from my chair, walked over, and said, “Hi mate, let me help you with that,” before grabbing what turned out to be the heavy end.
We made our way to the church entrance, where, to my relief, he stopped. It hadn’t even occurred to me to ask how far he was planning to go with it—what if he had intended to walk through the whole town in some grand Christian statement? Thankfully, the church was indeed his destination. Together, we carried the cross to the front of the building, where we placed it in the centre of the sanctuary. Against the backdrop of the stained-glass windows, it looked striking, a silent but powerful symbol of faith and sacrifice.
It was only after taking in my surroundings and speaking with the man that I fully grasped the significance of the cross. This coming Sunday was Palm Sunday—the beginning of Holy Week, marking Jesus’ arrival in Jerusalem. The cross we had just placed was to symbolise the empty cross, representing Jesus’ ultimate sacrifice for all of God’s children.
After the man thanked me for my help and left, I lingered in the church, taking in the beauty of the stained-glass windows and the intricate architecture. I now appreciated the craftsmanship and history in these spaces, but this time, something felt different. I sat down and prayed—thanking God for my day, for looking after my mum, and for the subtle winks and nudges I’ve received throughout my recovery. The peace was overwhelming. Eventually, I returned to the sunshine and quiet of the garden, feeling lighter, as if I had been given something in return for my simple act of assistance.
Curious to understand more about Holy Week, I pulled out my phone and started reading. As I delved deeper, memories surfaced—reminders of my mum’s unwavering faith and the childhood Sundays spent in church when I had little choice in the matter. Two passages stood out to me:
Matthew 27:32: “And as they came out, they found a man of Cyrene, Simon by name, him they compelled to bear his cross.”
Mark 15:21: “And they compelled a passer-by, Simon of Cyrene, who was passing by, coming from the country, and the father of Alexander and Rufus, to carry his cross.”
These verses describe how, in his weakened state, Jesus was unable to carry his cross alone, and Simon of Cyrene was pulled from the crowd to help him. The weight of it, both literal and symbolic, was too much for one person to bear.
Reading this, my mind ignited. I had just lived my own version of this moment. Of course, my experience was far removed from the suffering of Jesus, but the parallel was undeniable. Without question or hesitation, I had helped a stranger bear his cross. And as I reflected on it, a deeper truth emerged: we all have a cross to bear. For some, it’s a lifelong struggle—addiction, grief, illness, loss. For others, it may be an unexpected hardship that suddenly alters the course of their lives. None of us are exempt; at some point, we all shoulder burdens too heavy to carry alone.
Yet, in that impromptu act, I saw another truth—none of us are meant to carry our burdens alone. When I saw the man struggling, I could have stayed in my comfortable chair, enjoying the sun and my own peaceful solitude. But I didn’t. Something in me compelled me to help, without analysing the situation or questioning what I would get in return. And in doing so, I received something far greater than I had given. By offering help, I was granted entry to a space I had only observed from the outside—a space that held my mum that very morning, a space where I could sit, reflect, and offer my gratitude to my God.
It made me think deeply about Step 12 of Alcoholics Anonymous—helping others in their struggles with alcoholism. I’ve always had doubts about my ability to sponsor someone else. Would I be good enough? Reliable enough? Did I have anything to offer? Those fears had held me back. But in this experience, I found the encouragement I needed. I hadn’t questioned my ability to help with the cross—I just did it. And it worked out brilliantly. What if sponsorship is the same? What if it’s not about analysing my qualifications, but simply stepping forward when I see someone struggling, offering my hand, and trusting that the rest will fall into place?
As each 24 hours of my new sober life passes, I realise I am given so much freely—peace, clarity, connection. And all I have to do is the same. Keep showing up, keep extending a hand, keep sharing my strength. Because just like that man with the cross, we never know when the help we offer might also be the help we need.
As an added WOW moment today, when I was writing this, I took a break for a moment, and my mobile phone informed my that I had something new to read. when I opened the Daily Tao app that had delivered my random peace of Tao wisdom, this is what was waiting for me 🤯
A Gift Given, A Gift Received
The strange, a brilliance, bloomed from yesterday's seed,
A moment sprung, then rooted, thought's swift weed.
Time given back, a gift of sunlit grace,
I sought the church's peace, a hallowed space.
Ten breaths, then broken, stillness shattered wide,
A bearded man, a cross of wood, he tried
To drag its weight, a heavy, burdened thing,
A sight unlooked for, sorrow's offering.
No thought, no pause, but action, swift and deep,
"Let me assist," the words I could not keep.
We shared the load, to sanctuary's door,
Where burden ceased, and meaning asked for more.
Palm Sunday's shadow, sacrifice revealed,
An empty cross, where grace was unsealed.
The stained glass glowed, a story etched in light,
And ancient stones, held truth within their might.
A prayer arose, for mother, for the day,
For subtle signs, that showed a gentler way.
The garden's peace, returned with deeper hue,
A gift received, for what I dared to do.
Then words, like echoes, from a distant scroll,
Simon of Cyrene, bearing Jesus' toll.
The weight of man, too heavy to sustain,
A shared affliction, mirrored in pain.
The act, a shadow, of that ancient scene,
A cross of wood, where human hearts convene.
We all bear burdens, heavy, dark, and long,
A silent struggle, where we are not strong.
Yet none are meant, to walk this path alone,
The helping hand, a truth that's always shown.
I could have stayed, in comfort's shallow hold,
But something moved, a story to unfold.
And in that act, a greater gift I found,
A sacred space, where grace and truth abound.
The inner court, where prayers and silence meet,
A hidden spring, where weary souls retreat.
Step twelve arose, from depths of doubt and fear,
"Can I assist?", the whispered questions near.
But like the cross, no measure needed then,
Just open hands, and trust to rise again.
Each sober dawn, a gift of peace bestowed,
A simple act, where seeds of kindness sowed.
To show the hand, to share the strength I gain,
For in that help, my own release from pain.
The man, the cross, the lesson understood,
The giving heart, where grace is always good.
We know not when, the help we give, may be,
The very solace, that sets our spirit free.
