Try Saying Thank You

One-hundred and fifty hours in quarantine, and 48 hours without the medication I depend on for the stability of my mind and body, is an attempt on the life of my pride.

When such an attempt is made, one has two choices:

(1) Let it die, and learn to receive grace.

OR

(2) Get really upset.

Yesterday, I chose the latter.

Because here’s the thing: I have now spent 5.5 days in my room, unable to help anyone, watching from the doorway as the women on my floor care for each other in my stead and some friends suffer and get let down. And as an Enneagram 2/pastor’s daughter/firstborn/counseling major/whatever else has shaped my personality, I have to work to believe those things don’t affect my worth.

Add to this the fact that I was going through drug withdrawals because I ran out of my prescription on Thursday and it couldn’t be refilled until Monday, and I was just a tad bit of a hot mess.

So each offer of help felt increasingly like a punch in the gut.

“Can I pick you up anything?”

“Do you need help with anything today?”

“Just say the word and I’ll do it.”

And then there were the two bouquets, the scent diffuser, the can of soup, the tea, the laundry being done, the granola bars (thank God, I at least payed for those), and the dropping by just to see if I was alive—all while others I knew were suffering more profoundly and not receiving help—and I was fit to explode.

In fact I did, all over my small group, to which one of them responded, “You might try saying thank you.”

I rolled my eyes at her.

But she was right.

At 11:30 last night, I finally shut the door on all the love I had received that day, and realized I had not thanked God for a single thing. I had inwardly rejected every gift of grace, though the flowers were displayed around my room and the diffuser was happily doing its job on the coffee table. I had decidedly shut down my heart to any semblance of openness and in the process, I had missed God’s acts of love toward me.

It wasn’t just the offers I was rejecting. It was Him and His people. In closing my heart to help, I had closed my heart to the joy of communion with Him.

Dang it.

I knew it was conviction because instead of feeling shame, I sank down onto my bed and laughed at myself. How could I have been so dumb? All day, He had been pursuing my heart, showing me He was there, and I had flat out rejected Him every.single.time.

“I’m sorry, Lord,” I said, shaking my head and smiling. Repentance was sweet and gentle on my heart and I felt myself opening.

He forgave me.

Today, I woke up much recovered because I got surprise access to the meds I needed and letting pride go is actually one of the best ways to feel better about life. Who knew?

Today, I am open. Because I have one of the sweetest communities ever fit together by God’s hand, there will probably be more offers for help and more favors and more lavish demonstrations of love in the face of my forced inadequacy—all year, this will continue to happen. And that’s a good thing, because it reminds me that ALL THINGS are grace from God’s hand and I don’t earn any of it.

My worth is not in what I do when I can leave my room.

So if you see me today, or any other day, glowering in shame and anger because someone helped me, remind me what is true with the words of my wise friend:

“You might try saying thank you.”