Matthew 11:28-30
"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light."
What if we ended the first sentence after “you” and instead it read:
"Come to me, all of you.”
All of you—the amazing parts, the talented, the gifted, the anointed. But also the pain, the darkness, the flesh, the tempted parts, and the chaos.
What if we actually believed that the God of the universe wanted all of us?
As I enter into another year of life, I keep coming back to this scripture. I find myself tangled in its words, wrestling with what they really mean. Even after following Jesus for over 15 years, I still catch myself trying to hide parts of who I am—like I have to clean up before meeting with the Father. As if He can’t already see what’s hidden.
It seems to be an innate human reflex: to cover up.
But what if, instead of pretending we aren’t hiding, we asked for help right in the middle of it? That thought led me to Mark 9.
Jesus was deep into His ministry—a season marked by healing, restoration, and the miraculous. So much so that people lined His path just to catch a glimpse of what He might do next. And yet, what strikes me is how many people witnessed these moments, heard His sermons firsthand, and walked away unchanged.
It’s easy to judge that. Until I look back at my own life and remember the many ways God tried to grip my attention—and I failed to look up.
In Mark 9, the disciples run into a situation that looks like a miracle they should be able to perform—but they can’t. A father brings his tormented son, desperate for freedom. The disciples try, but nothing changes. So the father goes straight to the source: Jesus.
In the midst of his asking, he reveals his doubt:
"If you can do anything, take pity on us and help us.”
I can’t help but wonder—wasn’t he one of the crowd who had seen Jesus cast out demons and restore blind eyes? Maybe he believed Jesus could heal, but deep down thought, “Not my son. Not this darkness. This is too far gone, too broken, too much.”
Or maybe he simply didn’t believe Jesus would want to help someone like him.
Jesus responds, “‘If you can’? Everything is possible for one who believes.”
And the father’s words echo through time:
"I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief.”
Belief and unbelief can hold the same space.
Vulnerability and hiding can hold the same space.
It wasn’t just the disciples who couldn’t cast out the spirit—it was doubt.
So what if we stopped trying to bring only our “church-ready” selves to Him? What if we brought it all—the belief and the unbelief, the strength and the struggle, the gifting and the grief? He already knows, and still, He says, “Come to Me. All of you.”
As I step into another year of life, that’s what I want more than anything: to stop striving and start showing up—fully. To believe He actually wants all of me, not just the polished version. And when I can’t muster up perfect faith, to simply whisper like that desperate father did, “I believe; help my unbelief.”
Maybe you need that reminder, too. That your doubt doesn’t disqualify you. That you're hiding doesn’t scare Him. That rest isn’t found in having it all together—it’s found in Him.
Come to Me, all of you.
That’s the invitation.
And somehow, it’s still enough.
Live loved,
Jaimee
Song Recommendation:
Shalom by Bridge Worship
