One of my biggest fears is to be a burden. A bother. Needy. Helpless. I am almost incapable of asking for help. I have been this way for a very long time. As long as I can remember, really. After my dad's surgery went awry almost 20 years ago and he became partially paralyzed, I was so worried about his pain that I would almost cry if I overthrew the softball while practicing with him in the front yard. I saw the pain when he tried to bend down. So if I overthrew, I would run as fast as I could to try to get to it before he would grit his teeth as he bent down slowly to pick it up, doing his best to hide the pain from his little girl. He would tell me, "It's okay, sweetie. I've got it." I didn't believe him. I saw the pain. I remember being afraid to ask my busy mother-of-six for a friend to come over. Not because I was afraid of her. No, not at all. I was afraid of seeing that war within her. The war of being (understandably) overwhelmed and exhausted from taking care of six kids all day under some extremely extrenuating circumstances and not knowing how to take on anything else, but still wanting me to be able to enjoy time with a friend. And I didn't want to be the one to give her another thing to think about. After all, she had more than enough on her plate already. I was aware early on that our family was most certainly not wealthy, so I did my best to not ask for too much. When I felt like us kids were asking too much, I would cry secretly and worry that we were making life too hard for our parents. And then I was a teenager struggling through a chemical depression. The sole spark of light in my life was music, but I would play the piano and sing almost at a literal yell (because, my God, how good it felt to have something come out of my mouth that was raw and unfiltered when I had no idea how to communicate when I simply spoke) and would annoy people around me. "I can't hear the TV, Bethany." "It's way too loud." "Can you maybe just sing a bit more quietly?" No one was trying to be hurtful or tell me that I was a problem, but when we are young and impressionable, we make sense of the world in the best way we can. I began building a belief system early on: I was in the way. I made too much noise. I was a burden and a bother.
Life gave me more than enough opportunities to fortify this belief. I had already learned how to internalize comments and situations. I had learned how to do my absolute best not to be in the way. I didn't really ask for help. I tried not to put people out. And when all-too-familiar comments were made or all-too-familiar situations came my way, the all-too-familiar thoughts were my only answer to interpret what was happening. "Don't be a bother." If I had a dollar for every time I heard that from myself...
So what is a girl like me to do when she is brought into a very extended season where she constantly finds herself to be completely and utterly helpless? I could tell story after story, beginning just hours after D and I said "I do" of how the Lord has allowed me to be so far out of control. The story of car trouble on our honeymoon in an unfamiliar place. The story of how Moses almost died and how we scrounged up all the money we had to take him to the doctor, praying that God would spare him. How God did spare him after our many helpless nights of begging. The story of the third degree burn on my hand and how we only had enough money for the CareNow visit, but none for the pain medication or ointment. How that night we went to our new Home Group and paid for our portion of the community dinner with our laundry quarters (praying out of embarrassment that no one saw that it was me who put them in the jar) because we were so broke waiting for me to get my first paycheck and living on one income with a seminary budget. And how our new friends somehow pulled it out of us that we didn't have the money for the medicine, and joyfully shoved money into my good hand before we could leave. The story of rushing home from work to find David on the front steps, just hanging up with the officer and having to find a way to mutter the words to me, "My mom is dead." How it was one in 3 times I've ever seen him cry in all my years of knowing him. How we had no money for a flight and no car to get to Nebraska to bury her. The pain behind being so far away from his one and only mama and not knowing how to get to her. How we had only known Chris and Kelli for a few months and they freely gave us his business miles to fly us there and back at absolutely no charge to us. How our Home Group selflessly put together enough money for us to get a rental car and buy groceries while we were there. How we cried when it was all given to us. How neither of us even knew how to stretch out a hand to accept it. They just laid it on the coffee table as we sat in shock. The story of helping your husband plan his mother's memorial service, clean out her office, her home, her car. Knowing that 26 is far too young to say goodbye. Watching him be heartbroken. The story of losing our precious little one to a miscarriage. How I didn't know how to grieve. How we didn't know how to grieve. How friends and family rallied around us when I wanted to shut down. Knowing that I would never have the baby back and that I couldn't change it. The story of burying our Apple kitty after finding her dead in the street at one year old. The story of realizing that you need help in your marriage at less than a year in. How I came to the end of myself and saw that I'm really not good at this whole "wife" thing. How I looked at my husband and saw the hurt in his eyes. From life, loss and love. How I was tired of needing help.
Season after season, I am simultaneously humbled and empowered by the truth that the only beauty I have is found in God the Father reigning over me, Jesus the Son interceding for me, and the Holy Spirit dwelling within me. All else is rags. I am but a beggar. My whole life I have tried to run from asking for help. I have wanted to stay as far away from being a bother or burden or saying that I need help as I possibly could. But God. He is ripping away from me any notion I had that I ever possessed even a fragment of the ability to be self-sufficient. He is removing the safety nets I thought I had. He is showing me just how needy I really am. And as I come face to face with my inability to stand on my own two feet, I am being forced to learn that my weakness is exactly what the Word says it is: it is a means by which He is glorified. His purposes and His plans and His power are magnified when I am painfully aware of just how helpless I am. At a young age I couldn't rationalize and take into account the times my mom had joyfully and lovingly invited loads of my friends over for Bible Club parties or sleepovers and graciously allowed us to make a mess and never complained about how loud we were at ungodly hours. I couldn't rationalize and take into account the times my dad had happily gone out of his way to offer help with my physics project at midnight the night before it was due. I couldn't rationalize and take into account the countless times my family had spoken life into my music, or the countless times other avenues of entertainment came secondary to hearing me sing. My vision was flawed. And I have remained partially blind as I have developed my ability to see how I truly interact with the world. I was never intended to take any identity other than the one given to me when my Father called me His. I am not a bother or burden, and asking for help is one of the most human things I can do.
So let me boast in my weakness here that He may be exalted. That His beauty in our stories would be the prize I seek. I know I'm not surprising anyone when I say that David and I don't have it all together. We never have. In fact, we've mostly always been the opposite. And I have struggled with feeling a lot of shame in our hardships and sin. Feeling embarrassed for not having it all together and for needing help. Worrying that my sin would be too great. Afraid to bother those whom I have wanted and needed to ask to walk with me as I learn how in the world to be more like Jesus. But thank God that His divine hand on us is that of a Father: guiding us into true life and Godliness. I am weak, He is strong enough to carry both of us. I am poor, He provides in the most wise way. I am grieving, He is the sweetest Friend. I am fearful, He teaches me to trust. I am sinful and ugly in my rebellion, He is slow to anger and so quick to forgive. I realize that I cannot hold on any longer with just the will of my slipping fingers, and He bids me to let go and find that floor He taught me about so long ago. He knows the cost to follow. He knows the journey. He knows I cannot do it on my own. It was only ever me who struggled to accept that.
My friend, if you feel like you are walking a road and cannot possibly let anyone know how badly you are hurting or struggling or doubting or rebelling; if you feel like you don't have the privilege or the right to ask for help; if you feel like a burden, please talk to me. Let's learn to walk this road together. After all, I need you and you need me.
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