Friday, May 8, 2015

Humble Pie

I read a quote today that floored me. The blog was discussing how hard it is to ask for help and she wrote, “These requests may sound like no-brainers to some, but they were big, humbling moments for me. I like feeling strong. I’m prideful of my independence.
And like a ton of bricks, it hit me. This is something I've been struggling with this past trimester. Not the pregnancy. Not the having to pee 18 times a night. Not that I seriously can’t see my upper thighs anymore (no one tell me how big they’re getting, I like the “ignorance is bliss” thing I’m rocking right now.)

Pride. Ugh. I hate even typing that. I know there is no sin that is greater than the other, but man I hate my battle with pride.

I've always been a pretty independent person. When you’re the oldest in a family of four, and the other 3 are very driven, hard-working boys, you naturally just learn “oh I can do this on my own.” Our family motto is “put your big girl panties on and deal with it.” Granted, I have a very understanding and loving family who will help each other at the drop of the hat, but we are all naturally just very independent. When we found out we were pregnant I think I had made an agreement with myself that I would not be someone who was helpless just because they were pregnant, and I've tried very hard to fight off extra help that was offered. I had one friend say she could get a ride from the airport by someone else if I was too tired. I about yelled at her. “I’m pregnant, NOT AN INVALID!”

Oh how naïve I was.

Pregnancy has taken my “I got this” attitude and thrown it out the window where it has been run over by at least 15 semi-trucks and I absolutely HATE it. I love being a problem solver. I love rising above issues and fixing them. I love that my husband doesn’t have to worry about me being able to take care of stuff; but pregnancy man, that will rob you of that. These past few weeks I have finally started to feel the weight, and I mean literal weight, of growing and carrying this sweet baby girl. Stairs kill me. I can’t lift things. I tire easily. And I hate to say this, but my hormones are making it harder to emotionally handle things as well. So when we found out two Fridays ago we were going to have to move out of our house due to mold abatement and construction (don’t worry, very minor mold, but it needed to GO!) I took the news as I do about most things in life and thought, “32 weeks pregnant…pshhh we got this!”

Ladies and Gentleman, let me clarify: we did NOT have it.

I was convinced I could pack up our house and get it moved all while the sweat glistened beautifully on my already glowing pregnancy face. People would be in awe. There would be cheering, and possibly a "Pregnant Woman of the Year" Award that I would graciously receive. 


I tried packing and was hit with Braxton hick’s contractions the entire time. They were so strong I had to set a timer to remind myself to rest so I could give my body a break and allow my abdomen to unclench.
This was my humbling moment. I couldn't do this.

 Thankfully, my wiser and more aware husband had called sweet friends to come help us pack. Later that week our awesome bible study cancelled our meeting so that the boys could come help Jordan move a ton of our furniture to our new house. Without questioning anything they immediately offered their help and showed up with their muscles and their servant’s hearts.

Living so far from family we are learning how much our friends and community HAVE to become our second family. We can’t fear asking for help, or admitting when things are hard. They are all we physically have out here; and sadly an understanding phone call from our parents isn't going to get the house packed up. It was truly beautiful to see so many friends come around us without a single complaint and with the biggest of hearts.

So as I sat on the couch during one of my breaks while I watched my friends pack up every last kitchen dish we had, I had to deal with myself. I felt weak. I felt lazy. I felt like I needed to explain why I was sitting on the couch. In my mind I was the fat lady sitting on the couch because packing up boxes was “too much”. It killed me. And ever so slowly I ate my humble pie (the whole pie) and learned what it was like to be vulnerable and let someone help me.
This is how the Lord designed it though; to help each other. To be there for each other! My independent personality is great in many areas, however, I realize it has caused me to miss out on receiving such a wonderful blessing that exists in the body of Christ.

So for the last few weeks of this pregnancy, I’m going to practice asking for help when I need it, and try not to do everything on my own.

However, I still think Jordan won’t shave my legs for me, so I may need to keep trying to attack that battle on my own ;)