I ran out of gas this morning. I figured it was sign that maybe God wanted to chat about something. I’m guessing it’s the “hey girl, you might want to slow down and take some time to refuel conversation.” (You know the one all I want to do is avoid)
I sat on the side of the road, with the baby in the back yelling, “mama, car broke,” and sighed.
“Ok God,” I thought, “you’ve got my attention.”
And this is what I sensed him saying.
Make the call. Ask for help. Let me love you.
It’s been a repeated theme ringing in my ears for the last few weeks after my husband and I got in an argument and he suggested that though I give love well I am woefully lacking in my “love receiver.”
To which I replied “maybe you’re a suck giver” (OK… I didn’t actually say that even though I wanted to)
But if I’m honest, Tim’s probably on to something.
I hate to ask for help. I struggle to accept gifts and I feel like I have to prove my worth (by working, writing, cleaning, ministry, etc…) before I am allowed anything good-like time with a friend, or a margarita, or a nap.
I run around all week like a chicken with my head cut off yelling (difficult to yell with no chicken head-but play along with me here) “have I earned my keep?”
I guess what I’m really asking is… “Am I valuable? Do I have worth beyond what I do?”
And when I stop (for more than a minute) God whispers “yes.”
So I made the call. I asked for help. I leaned in.
My husband showed up like a knight in preppy armor and rescued his damsel and baby damsel in distress. By the large goofy smile on his face, I realized, he was born for this “hero” job.
Sometimes I think God allows these break-downs so I will be forced to scream “uncle.”
And recognize that my greatest need is to allow Him (and my husband) to simply love me.
