I recently got to tag along with my husband on a work trip (for him) to Fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada, where I had daytime hours to myself to explore, play, and sight see as my energy levels allowed. So much to see there. And so much more I probably didn’t want to see. But I digress.
There are an incredible variety (and number) of casinos up and down the strip, all of which make it a primary goal to make you think you’re somewhere wonderful, somewhere exotic, but somewhere other than where you actually are. The resort owners craft an impressive counterfeit; the details and atmosphere are pretty and engaging, all harmonizing with the casino’s chosen theme. But. Mere yards away from the beautifully executed illusion, throngs of people are driven by the express purpose of gambling, drinking, partying, barely noticing their surroundings. The décor in a resort might transport you to a Paris street, or a cafe table by the canals of Venice while a passing gondolier pours out beautiful Italian songs to the couple in his gondola, but then the whiff of cigarettes from the casino and the sound of the slot machines shatter the carefully wrought illusion that you are anywhere but, well, where you really are.
Much like those Las Vegas resorts, I’ve spent my lifetime developing a skill for putting up a facade. I can look like I have it all together, giving the impression that I’m a woman with a plan, one without stress or worries, one who keeps a perfect home or has a perfect life. And it looks pretty good for a while. Until something happens, my life gets rocked a bit (or a lot), and the edge of reality slips a little from behind the illusion, allowing a whiff of desperation, loneliness, or the fear that people will find out what I really am. Not perfect. Not all together, not as strong as I seem, not as confident as I seem, I don’t keep a perfect house, and there are oh-so-many-many things that I don’t do well at all.
If I ventured a guess, I would say I’m not alone here. That there are many of my sisters out there in the same boat (or Las Vegas gondola, in keeping with the motif) with me. We want to seem like we have it together, and we can, until a circumstance collides with our visage of perfect and we have to come face to face with the illusion.
One thing I’ve learned in the past couple of years is that it’s ok, really, not to have it all together. It’s ok to be who you really are rather than putting up a front. God created you and gifted you perfectly, and you don’t have to be Paris or Venice to be amazing. So I’m making progress in this area, but there’s a particular place that this authenticity eludes me still: Seeking or accepting help.
In my life experience and my observation of my sisters walking this earth, when asked if we need anything, even on the worst day, we (more often than not) reply, No thanks, I’m fine. When we are SO. Not. Fine. Which makes me wonder: Why aren’t we honest about this? Why the mask? Why put the Vegas veneer on our life when there’s a need clamoring to be met?
Two reasons that I’ve bumped up against: one of my own and one a close friend shared with me when we were having a conversation about this very thing.
For me, it’s often prideful self sufficiency that stifles honesty about the real ache and desire of my heart, that causes me to move on in isolated silence. It’s incredibly hard to admit I can’t make it all work. Because that makes me less than. And deep down it’s scary for light to shine on this weakness for fear of being hurt.
For my friend, the hesitation to share a need stems from a gut-level doubt that the one offering really wants to help. There’s an underlying question mark about whether the person offering (regardless of who it is) actually wants to enter into the situation with her and try to help OR that they can help at all. It often feels, she explained, that they’re just being polite because offering help is the proper thing to do as humans rather than having a real desire or ability to help.
What would we really say if we were straight-forward, if we actually spoke out loud what we really needed? But what if we dropped the facade and let someone in? What if we admitted that we need someone?
A recent message I heard said when we don’t allow others to help us, we are robbing them of the chance to serve God. Let that sink in for a moment.
Maybe their God-assignment for the day was to fill the need of your heart. Or to make a quick run to the store you can’t do because you’re home with sick kids. Or to bring you a can of soup and a box of lady products when you’re stuck at the hospital with your sick husband (seriously, I once did this for a wonderfully transparent friend who answered honestly when I asked if there was anything she needed). If people are asking, they typically really mean it and are truly happy to help.
So I write this to myself as much as to you: Let people in. Let them help you, let them bless you, let them KNOW you. The Vegas facade is exhausting: life improves exponentially when we admit we can’t do it all alone.
As I unpacked this topic, a glaring parallel drifted into focus: don’t we do the same “I’m fine” song and dance with God?
“I don’t need anything, thanks for asking,” we say, when our need for him is so very soul stiflingly great. “I’m good,” we reply, when we’re really not at all good. We arms-length the Creator of our universe, the Lover of our souls with our prideful self sufficiency because we just want to deal with it on our own because we think we should be able to, thank you very much. Or we don’t accept His help because, on some level, we struggle to believe He really cares, really wants to help, or can really fix our broken place.
But I promise you, He cares, He can, and He will. But we have to choose to allow His help in our lives. He’s offering. We just have to accept.
“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.” -Matthew 11:28-29
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