I don’t like being desperate. It’s awkward. It’s uncomfortable. It means that I’m not in control.
It’s funny, because that’s what yesterday’s sermon was about. It was about a woman who came to Jesus begging, desperate. Not dependent on how she asked, not dependent on how she looked when she asked. She threw herself at his feet in desperation, and he responded with love.
I don’t know how it is for you, but I hate asking for help. More than that, I hate sounding needy. If I do have to ask for someone’s help, I make sure to include plenty of, “If you have a minute…”s and “When you have some time…”s and “If it’s not too much trouble…”s.
This weekend, though, I found myself desperate. I was overwhelmed. Things weren’t going well. They weren’t at all what I wanted them to be. I was absolutely worn out—emotionally, physically, and relationally. And I didn’t know what to do about some of the situations I was facing.
So I did something uncomfortable.
I asked for help.
There were seven women who came to mind who I could ask to pray and who I could ask for encouragement, so I let them know what was going on. Their responses overwhelmed me with love. They offered a listening ear. They offered some incredible wisdom. They told me they were praying. They told me that I wasn’t alone. They told me they loved me. They told me they were proud of me. And they told me they were pulling for me.
It changed everything. When things threatened to overwhelm me again, I remembered their words. I remembered their love. And that gave me hope.
It started, though, with terrible discomfort.
It started with desperation.
Sometimes, it’s worth getting rid of the pretenses and just asking. When I do, I’m amazed by how lovingly people respond. I think you might be, too.