296 The Torch I Was Never Meant to Carry: A Journal Entry on Letting Go

When the Weight of a Mother’s Last Request Meets the Voice of the Father

Aug 19, 2026

Good morning, and hello friends.

I have not written or made a journal entry in a long time. Several days in fact. There has been a lot going on in my mind and in my life. But none of it is visible from the outside looking in, nor is it visible to those around me.

At the top of the list continues to be the “how” and the “when.” I know the “where” and I understand the “why,” but Father has not yet helped me to see the “how.” And that is okay, because I have faith and trust in Him. He provides for the birds of the air.

“Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them.
Are you not of more value than they? And which of you by being anxious can add a single hour to his span of life? And why are you anxious about clothing?
Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.
But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which today is alive and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you, O you of little faith?
Therefore do not be anxious, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’
For the Gentiles seek after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them all. But seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added to you.
Therefore do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble” (Matthew 6:26-34, ESV).

So, yes, I will not be anxious nor will I worry about lacking in the things He knows I need. Amen.

What else is on the list of things on my mind?

My family. Not my extended family, but the immediate family. There is strife, drama, betrayal, hurt, and pain in the house of Shashue. As the first born son and eldest, I was raised to accept the responsibility of being mediator, the bringer of solutions and fixes to situations and circumstances that more often than not were distractions from my walk, my path, and my plans.

To further cement that obligation, in a way, it was one of mom’s final asks of me before she took her last breath. She was insistent about it, and I did not understand why this was so.

Her final ask? In her own manner of speaking, keep “us” together. Hold “us” together. Do not allow “us” to be like “them.”

At the time, it seemed like an odd ask or obsession because we were never closer as a unit than when she was preparing to leave the flesh which she had occupied for eighty-seven years minus a month. But I see now that she must have known or seen things of which I was unaware. She was passing on a torch to me that I neither wanted nor thought needed to be carried.

Immediately following her transition, the cracks began to widen and reveal themselves to me. As the days roll by, the cracks grow into chasms, and I begin to notice the weight of the torch on my heart and my aching arm.

“Then Amalek came and fought with Israel at Rephidim. So Moses said to Joshua, ‘Choose for us men, and go out and fight with Amalek.
Tomorrow I will stand on the top of the hill with the staff of God in my hand.’ So Joshua did as Moses told him, and fought with Amalek, while Moses, Aaron, and Hur went up to the top of the hill.
Whenever Moses held up his hand, Israel prevailed, and whenever he lowered his hand, Amalek prevailed.
But Moses’ hands grew weary, so they took a stone and put it under him, and he sat on it, while Aaron and Hur held up his hands, one on one side, and the other on the other side. So his hands were steady until the going down of the sun. And Joshua overwhelmed Amalek and his people with the sword” (Exodus 17:8-13, ESV).

Moses had Aaron. Where is my Aaron? I ask Him in my weary, tired, and still grieving soul.

“You do not need an Aaron. I never asked you to carry this torch. Let it go. You are not god. Am I not your God?”

So there it is. My Creator and God asks me to lay down a torch that my mother made me promise to carry before she died. How do I not feel like I am spitting on her grave? Why does God allow for these types of things? Why am I here if I have no part to play in this scene that You are orchestrating before me in this home?

It is one thing to put down the torch and to never see it again. But it is pretty cruel, in my humble opinion, to ask me to put down the torch, yet still see it and be reminded of it every day. Have I done something to offend You?

Is this a lesson? Am I to “count it all joy”?

“Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness. And let steadfastness have its full effect, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing” (James 1:2-4, ESV).

Is my heart in Your peace in this episode? Yes, it is. But can I have some peace in the space I occupy too? Can I have peace at home with my family?

Why am I here if there is no part for me to play?

I wrote in “The Biker and the Hippie” about the codependent relationship between the two versions of myself. The biker who thinks he must protect and provide. The hippie who wants to love and be vulnerable. This torch feels like the biker’s burden. It is the weight of self-reliance, the belief that I must hold everything together with my own two hands. And the Father is asking me to put it down.

In “The Known Destination, The Unseen Path,” I wrote about how the “how” is what distinguishes the work of the Father from that of our own efforts and resourcefulness. My mind wants a divine project plan. But God is less interested in my efficient execution of a plan and more in the state of my heart during the planning. Or the lack thereof. This is the same lesson. I want to know how to hold the family together. He wants me to trust Him with the outcome.

In “The Front Porch Lesson,” I wrote about how the most painful experiences we endure are the ones that imprint us the deepest. The sharper the correction, the faster we learn it. This is a sharp correction. It hurts. But it is imprinting a truth I need to see. I am not the savior of my family. That role belongs to Yahusha alone.

And in “The Testimony of the In-Between,” I wrote about how my faith is demonstrated in weak moments. The moments of doubt. The moments of insecurity in unfamiliar terrain. The meat of the testimony is not the finished story. It is the act of walking each step in obedience and navigating all the challenges and emotions experienced while taking those steps. This is one of those steps. Grief. Family strife. The weight of a torch I was never meant to carry. And you, my friends, are witnessing each one.

So, what do I do with this torch? I lay it down. I place it at the feet of the Father. I trust that He sees what I cannot. I trust that He loves my family more than I do. I trust that His plans for them are good, even when I cannot see the path.

Psalm 55:22 says, “Cast your burden on the Lord, and he will sustain you; he will never permit the righteous to be moved” (ESV).

I cast this burden on Him. I let go of the torch. I stop trying to be Moses with weary arms and no Aaron. I stop trying to be the savior. I rest in the truth that He is God and I am not.

There has been a lot going on in my mind and in my life. But none of it is visible from the outside looking in. That is the nature of the quiet between the steps. The struggle is internal. The battle is unseen. But the Father sees. He knows. And He is faithful.

That is all, and thank you for reading.

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