But, it is actually wonderful news. My strength has failed. Utterly. And here in this place I must ask for help. Simply and humbly. I can not paint a picture of how beautiful and charming my life is because I get up finished and stagger from one rest period to the next. I find I haven't written because writing blossoming words about bread-making and nurturing children and vegetables echo in the emptiness of my self. It seems that out here in the world there is no place for feebleness and limping, but I am feeble and I waddle when I don't limp. I have struggled forward because what hounds me is the desire to be sufficient and the guilt of need. Help is a beautiful, terrible word because it implies need and vulnerability, and it took just a bit more than everything I had to learn to whisper it.
Often people ask how I do this life, and truly, today, I do it soaked in prayer, but not in my own feeble prayers but in those who have come along side me and shown me what community means. This week, I have known what it is to be carried, and it hurt--it hurt to know that I can't. The stubbornness that marbles my bones threatened to make me miss this opportunity. It is uncomfortable to be needy. It is wretched to be unable. It is beautiful to finally, gratefully come to the end of myself and reach out and find the hands that are always there and will always be.
I am not pressing on, I am pressing in. Grace and mercy have found me and I have met them with joy and pain. I am a very slow learner and sickeningly stubborn, so it is with great relief that I travel here to the end of myself and learn to be quiet.