A long time ago, in a small world not so terribly far away, I wrote about offering help.
Today is the start of the wretched realm of self-examination that is “asking for help.”
It’s always such a wrench. I am a Christian. I was raised in the faith. I have been and am extraordinarily blessed. Strangely enough, it seems I have fewer issues trusting that, when it comes to my (definitely enthusiastically sinful) soul, I need help. Someone Else needs to step in there and smash away the dark and apply strong crime-scene level spiritual bleach. However when it comes to asking for a ride to a medical appointment, test, procedure, operation, or whatever the terminology of the day is… I dither.
The truth is that the version of myself, me in my head, is *of course* Hollywood beautiful and Ivy League brilliant and Navy Seal strong, and *that* person has no need of someone to help them lug in the groceries from the back of the car.
Yet to ask for help, I have to scrape all of those imaginings off that are really more like a three-year old’s art project than anything else: A couple stiff layers of glittery-glue pride here, a few twirls of pretty pink self-illusion ribbon there, a popsicle stick or two of the good ol’ stiff upper lip of false stoicism, a hefty layer of scented crayon in the colors of deception, and then the last few inches of construction paper in a tasteful array of desperate shielding.
The truth is that what is underneath is a good deal more real and interesting and ugly than the little art project. I just have to accept that who I am is not only a bad cook, a decent pianist, or an amateur photographer (whose camera lens is only semi-working!), but also someone who needs real help on this lovely little blue-green ball — and yet this sort of physical, everyday help doesn’t negate my intelligence, my beauty, my character. For me, at least, that is step one.