Let Me Do It

Almost every day, at least once, my four year old will approach me with a task she wishes to accomplish. The way in which she comes at me I am instinctively set into motion to HELP her.

I have learned, at the very least, to ask first instead of just starting in on the help, but inevitably she will buck up: “NO! I can do it!”

It is a dance we do. I know it well. I know that in a matter of minutes she will come back to me and let me help her—but every time—Every. Single. Time. She is going to come to me, appearing to need help…she might even SAY “I can’t do this!”…then state forcefully with all the stubbornness of a strong mule “I’ll DO IT”.

She then makes a good effort attempt, struggles…might even make a lot of loud grunting noises…then returns to me, ready for me to assist.

This dance doesn’t sound so awful, does it? Except…TIME. I know that if she would just LET. ME. HELP. HER….which is what she is going to do eventually anyway…we could speed this WHOLE. THING. UP. And get on to….well, I don’t know what…but we could get on to that oh so very important next thing. Am I right? Cause that next thing is urgent. Whatever it is.

I resign myself to this dance despite my frustrations. I have learned that trying to hurry it up actually just slows it down. I do a lot of self-soothing. Deep breathing. Smiling.

Sure, sweetie. Whatever you say. I’ll just sit here and wait on you. No big deal. I don’t have anything else in the world to do except wait on you.

I might lean back on the couch and take a deep breath and close my eyes. How’s it going, sweetheart? You are so strong and determined, I might add. I know you are capable. I am proud of you for trying (added only on days when I am channeling the spirit of Job and in super patient mom mode).

And then she comes back to me. “Mommy, I need some help. Even big girls need help sometimes, right?” Yes, sweetheart. They most certainly do. I am happy to help you. I am also proud of you for trying first on your own. You are getting stronger and more capable every day. My big girl.

Because by now I am fine. We have gone through the dance. It is over. I am free to be loving and accepting and proud.

And, I am. Truly.

I learned at an early age to be fiercely independent. It was a coping skill. Like many good coping skills of our youth they can become both strengths and liabilities in adulthood. And, one day, as I watched Hillary go through this dance with me I wondered how God experienced me.

I have to intentionally and deliberately and mindfully…and do ALL THE THINGS…to get in touch with the fact that God is available to me…that He is holding me through it all…through LIFE…that I am not alone.

I wondered about the dance I do.

“I GOT this. I am not going to bother You or anyone else. TOTALLY GOT IT.”

Then with all the stubbornness of a strong mule I struggle…might even make a lot of noises in my attempts.

But, God…He doesn’t seem to mind about the time. I get the sense that He is sitting back…amused…perhaps a bit heartbroken and proud and resigned all at once at my fierce independence…watching. With Him there is no need to speed this WHOLE. THING. UP. There is nothing else to get to. There is no frustration in Him. No need for him to self-soothe. Nothing urgent. Because I am His. Right then. Right now. Always. He has all the time in the world.

How’s it going, sweetheart? I see you. You are so strong and determined. Getting stronger as you struggle. So capable. My girl. I am watching. I am here. Loving, accepting, proud. I got this. You got this. Take your time.

Not alone. Not a bother. Not too much.

I don’t always know what it looks like to turn to Him and surrender. To acknowledge…I don’t have this. That I can’t do this alone. That I need You to help me.

But, eventually, in some still, quiet moments, I do. I acknowledge. I RELEASE. I surrender. I can feel it in my chest. I KNOW deep down that I am not alone. That I am not in charge. That He can take over. That a posture of trust feels like freedom.

This morning I went to wake up my two middle children for elementary school at about 6 AM. As I opened my son’s door he called out to stop me. I turned on the light to see him laying on the floor. I quickly surmised the situation as he said the words no parent wants to hear: “I threw up.” He had been sick in the middle of the night and had moved around to avoid the vomit until he found himself on the floor, flanked by two orangish-yellow piles of what was probably our spaghetti dinner from the night before. Sorry for the visual.

Later I asked my 8-year son why he had not come to get me.

“I didn’t want to wake you up.”

He didn’t want to bother me.

I sat with that idea the entire time I washed the sheets and rubbed the stains out of the carpet.

He didn’t want to bother me.

I’ve got this. I can do it. I didn’t want to wake you up.

I scrubbed the vomit out of the carpet, picking up tiny strands of spaghetti, and I remembered a little girl about the same age who had done the exact same thing.

The skills we learn as children are sometimes strengths AND liabilities in adulthood. Independence can be beautiful. In fierce forms it can also isolate us…leaving us to sleep in our own…well, in this case…vomit.

Where are you, sweet friend? How are you striving? Did you learn to be fiercely independent, too? Was it praised as a virtue? Honored as a strength? Has it contributed to the isolation you feel right now?

I can almost hear Him…God…sitting back…amused…perhaps a bit heartbroken and proud and resigned all at once at your fierce independence…watching, waiting…because with Him there is no need to speed this WHOLE. THING. UP.

There is nothing else to get to. There is no frustration in Him. No need for him to self-soothe. Nothing urgent. Because you are His. Right now. Always. He has all the time in the world.

Not alone. Not a bother. Not too much.

How’s it going, sweetheart? I see you. You are so strong and determined. So capable. My girl. I am watching. I am here. Loving, accepting, proud. I got this. You got this. Take your time.

But…I’m here. Always. Always. Always.

You aren’t in charge. I can take this. I can hold you. You don’t even have to know what it looks like to turn to Me and surrender. To acknowledge…that you don’t have this. That you can’t do this alone. That you need Me to help you.

Just turn. To Me. That’s all. Deep breath. One word. Trust.

I see you. I am FOR you. So proud I am of you. So strong and determined, you are. Just waiting over here. All the time in the world. Nothing else to get to.

I see you.

Not alone. Not a bother. Not too much.

 

 

***At the posting of this blog three out of four children are down for the count. Totally open to help. Independence is clearly overrated. Send reinforcements now. 😉