Bear ye one another’s burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ.
— Galatians 6:2
My brethren, count it all joy when ye fall into divers temptations; Knowing this, that the trying of your faith worketh patience.
— James 1:2-3
I used to think bearing burdens meant praying for people or bringing them casseroles.
I was wrong.
The real burden most people carry isn’t visible. It’s the weight between their legs. The pressure that builds from stress, loneliness, temptation, and the exhausting performance of being “respectable.” I’ve come to understand that some of us are called to help carry that particular load—not by talking about it, but by receiving it.
And I count it all joy.
The Joy of Being the Relief
There is a specific kind of joy that comes from knowing someone is about to empty themselves into you or onto you.
It’s not the polite, respectable joy the church talks about. It’s something deeper, messier, and far more honest. It’s the joy of watching a man’s face change as he finally lets go. It’s the joy of feeling a woman’s body tremble as she releases what she’s been holding back. It’s the quiet, filthy satisfaction of becoming the place where someone else’s burden ends.
I’ve learned to recognize the signs.
The way some of the men in church carry tension in their shoulders. The way certain women’s eyes linger a little too long. The quiet ones who never complain but always seem one bad week away from breaking. When I see it, I don’t offer prayer. I offer something better.
I offer to take the load.
Sometimes it’s just one. Sometimes it’s more. “One another’s” is plural for a reason. There are days when I find myself in rooms with several people who need relief, and I become the common ground where all of their burdens meet. I don’t do it for attention. I do it because something in me comes alive when I’m being used as the place where other people get to let go.
Hungering and Thirsting
Jesus said, “Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled.”
I take that promise literally now.
I hunger for it. I thirst for it. And when I’ve been patient—when I’ve waited, when I’ve served, when I’ve opened myself without rushing—I get filled. Sometimes it’s one man. Sometimes it’s a woman who’s been carrying more than she lets on. Sometimes it’s several people taking turns until I’m overflowing.
The joy that comes in those moments isn’t clean. It’s not the fruit of the Spirit the church likes to display. It’s something peculiar. Something that makes respectable Christians uncomfortable. But it is joy—deep, lasting, and strangely holy in its own way.
I’ve had men finish in my mouth after a long, hard week and watched the tension leave their bodies completely. I’ve had women use my face and my tongue like it was the only place they felt safe to let go. And every single time, I feel something settle in my spirit that no worship service has ever given me.
This is my fruit.
This is my joy.
Helping Them Empty Themselves
Christ emptied Himself.
I’ve come to see my role as helping others do the same.
Not in some lofty, spiritual sense—but literally. Balls deep. Load after load. I let them pour out what they’ve been carrying until they’re lighter. Until they can go back into their lives, their marriages, their pulpits, or their small groups with a little less weight on them.
Some people would call this degrading.
I call it ministry.
They look at the outside and see a woman being used. God looks at the heart and sees a woman who has found her calling in being the place where others are allowed to release. Even when my face is covered. Even when I’m leaking. Even when I’m sore and marked. I am doing what I was made to do.
And I count it all joy.
The Generous Ones
It isn’t only the men.
There are women in the church—the ones Song of Songs would call beautiful—who carry just as much. The ones who are generous with their bodies the way some people are generous with their money. The “loadsome” ones. The ones who have just as much to give as the men do.
I’ve learned who they are.
And when we come together, it’s no longer just about me receiving. It becomes something mutual. Something shared. We take turns being the relief for one another. We bear each other’s burdens in the most physical, intimate way possible. And the joy that fills the room in those moments is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced in a sanctuary.
We are rejected for it. Reviled for it. Called names by people who will never understand.
But Jesus said we would be.
And He also said great is our reward.
Your Turn, Sinner
Drop your filthiest story of bearing one another’s burdens in the replies. I read every single one. And if this piece stirred something... stay close. There’s more coming. The church is watching. But so are we.
I don’t bear burdens the way the church taught me.
I bear them with my mouth open, my body willing, and my heart full of a strange and stubborn joy. I let people empty themselves into me because I believe that sometimes the most Christ-like thing you can do is help someone else empty out what they’ve been carrying.
I hunger and thirst for it.
I wait patiently for it.
And when it finally comes—when I’m being filled, when I’m overflowing, when I’m marked and used and shared—I feel the fruit of the Spirit in a way that no sermon has ever produced in me.
Joy.
Peculiar, messy, rejected-by-the-church joy.
And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.