These last days have been zipping by at the speed of light, making something that happened a few weeks ago feel like it occurred last year. It was the final meeting of my bible study class. After singing one last hymn, we said goodbye for the summer. I drove away wrapped in the tingly warmth of the Holy Spirit wrapped around me like an electric blanket, and I swore to capture and keep that peace until we reconvened in the fall. I promised to stay this close to God throughout summer.
(Cue the ominous music here)
Soon after, I counted the weeks I had left to be a working mom before my kids were on summer vacation, six weeks. Six weeks?!? My head spun, I had a second book to finish drafting, six book covers to conceptualize and execute, a new book team to train, a hospice luncheon to get sponsored, and more. This was on top of my mom duties, wife duties, pet duties and school volunteer duties. All of which were feeling more like doo-doos as I ran around from 5:30am until after 11:00pm trying to chip away at the stacks of work, which seemed to stay massive in spite of my efforts.
I dubbed myself, “Mrs. Frazzled” and carried on, losing any grace in the process. Within a week of that moment when I drove away from bible study, I’d lost my sense of peace and balance. And because I left God behind, it all fell squarely on my shoulders. The stress. The burden. The shortcomings. The frustration.
Things worsened throughout May and well into June. I was more frazzled than ever, short on sleep and even shorter on temper. My teen, an old soul, suggested we cleanse the house, not with 409, but with burning sage and prayer. She feared a dark spirit was at work in our household, something powerful enough to transform her sweet mom into an ogre, though she never said that part.
That evening, with my littlest one fast asleep and husband across the country on business, we lit sage, walked the house and prayed. We replaced the angst crouching in our shadowy corners with grace. Before falling asleep that night, I asked God to forgive me. Forgive me for being obstinate, for insisting on carrying my burden alone. But, the truth is, I have a hard time admitting defeat – and an even harder time asking for help.
Asking for help makes me feel like a failure and leaves me drenched in queasy frustration. I was raised to be an independent woman, and asking for help meant I was weak, dependent and incapable. But, God doesn’t give us what we want, only what we need. And what I need most is to learn to ask for help.
I wrote a simple post on Facebook asking why it was so difficult for me to ask for help and I got an overwhelming response from friends and family. They found it hard as well. But, they also exposed another side to me – the blessing my cry can offer to the ones that answer my call. Wow. I’d never thought of it that way before. When we help others, it leaves us feeling content, satisfied, good. I knew that feeling from pitching in for other people over the years. Yes. I could give that feeling to someone else, if only I showed my vulnerability.
So, squirming, wriggling, and wincing – these last weeks, I’ve been asking for assistance. Not only from God, but from others as well. I’ve been asking for help. I’ve asked for patience, I’ve asked for understanding, I’ve asked for professional advice, and I’ve asked for more time. It still doesn’t feel comfortable, but I am learning. I am learning that sometimes asking for help is a blessing to the person that answers that call.
I’m also seeing that, even though I left God behind for a time, He never forgot about me. Not for one moment. He was there waiting to answer my request, I need only ask.
So, for those of you that unknowingly helped me learn that asking for help is a safe place, thank you. You were my blessing these last weeks. I promise to return the favor.