Excuse Me, Could You Help Me, Please?

I am a people helper.  And I do not mean this in an entirely nice way.  I mean, really – look at the completely co-dependent profession I have chosen!  

I am happy helping people.  Very happy.  Sometimes a bit too happy. 

This last year I have not helped people much – at all.  Two major surgeries, cancer treatment in isolation, my precious daughter fighting for survival emotionally, a high school switch mid school year, 2 cars totaled, and unstable thyroid levels have NOT been conducive to a lot of “giving” on my part.  It has required an excruciating amount of “taking”.

I have had to ask for help.  Sometimes I haven’t asked for help, but people have helped me.

They have cooked me dozens of meals.

They have cleaned my house. *cringe*

They have done yard work for our family.

They have stayed with me and waited on me after surgery.

They have let my daughter hang at their home when life felt overwhelming for her.

They have given my daughter rides.

They have helped me wrap my family’s Christmas presents.

They have prepared special “iodine free” food for my treatment.

They have taken up slack for theater responsibilities I couldn’t maintain.

They have helped me set up my blog.

They have loaned me DVDs.

They have given our family significant financial help.

They have provided me with free and reduced cost health resources.

They have checked in on me.

They have prayed.

They have prayed some more. *uncomfortably humbled*

They have listened as I sobbed out my sometimes overwhelming fears and grief.

THIS is the short list.  And then last night, our dear “adopted daughter” Brookie saved my bacon by diving in and taking over details of Elizabeth’s Sweet 16 birthday party.

There is a part of me that is more deeply grateful than I will ever be able to express.  We would NOT have made it through this last year without this gracious help.  Literally.

And there is a part of me that wants to crawl out of my skin with discomfort and resistance to all that help.  I would like to see this reaction of mine as a type of noble self-sufficiency, a “servant’s heart”, a highly respectable character quality of being a “giving” person.  Unfortunately, it’s not.   

Here’s the honest truth:  I don’t like feeling that vulnerable. Needing is a very naked place.  I don’t like feeling like I owe people.  (Showing my sickness here, people.) I want the scales to be tipped in my favor. I want the position of protection in the relationship.  And if I’m the giver, I am much safer.  If I am helping others, I am liked, needed, appreciated, approved, valuable and respected.  (Or at least that’s the old story I have unknowingly told myself.)   If I am the taker, then I am at risk and exposed.  People will see me as weak (and somewhat pathetic). They will see me as a user.  They will weary of my needs and then leave.  (Yet more of this interesting story.)

I think I need to tell myself a new story.  A truer story.

Maybe it goes like this:  I have the rich and undeserved blessing of deep friendships in my life that have lasted months, years, and decades.  Most of these people are comfortable with being asked for help.  Many of them have said they want to help.  Some of them might actually feel a certain degree of blessing by helping me.  (Hmm… It could happen.  I’ve felt that before.)

And maybe the story needs to contain the truth that I am safe in most of my most important friendships even when I have very little, if nothing to offer.  In this story I would develop a more secure humility and receive love and support with a gracious ease.  Secure in my own person even when the scales are imbalanced and I am in need.  Grounded in the value God has placed on my life even when I can’t give anything.

I am living more in this new story than I used to.  I still have a long way to go (as this last year has so painfully and helpfully pointed out).  

I am happy helping people.  Very happy.  Sometimes (still) a bit too happy.  But maybe I can help with increasingly purer motives and receive the love and support offered me with a little more security, humility and grace.

And here’s a thought: Maybe those I “help” sometimes struggle with the same conflicted, uncomfortable feelings that have surfaced in me.