I like to think I’m pretty good at taking care of myself. I started learning it when my sister got sick when I was 10. Plus, i’ve been independent since 18 and I’ve never been in a long-term relationship so leaning on a BF has never been my style. For a long time my motto was, “Don’t worry about me! I’ve got it.”
And I did and I have and the only thing that interrupted that motto was meeting the Lord and having to bow down to letting him take care of me.
We still work on that.
But other people? Nah. I’m good. I’ve got it. I don’t need you to coddle me, I don’t need a whole lot of direction, I’m not looking for anyone else to solve my problems. I’m an independent woman of God. Ok?
Wellllll, I think God has had other plans.
Within the last couple months there have been two major moves of God forcing me to be taken care of in ways that made me uncomfortable but were needed because no matter how independent I am, no matter how much I can hold it together, God wants to hold me and wants me to be held by Him and by others.
It’s just another reason why he asks us to be childlike before Him. It doesn’t matter how old we get. Sometimes we need to be lullabied, we need to sit down and let someone else take the reins for a bit, and we need to be physically cared for. Even as I struggle through this myself, I’ve become increasingly more passionate about how adults need physical affection, a little bit of cuddling and more support than our culture allows them. We really need it.
Hannah
There were a series of spiritual attacks that fell on me like rain before I launched. Unexpected. Out of nowhere.
One of those fell the day after Christmas when everyone was happily playing with their families and still immersed in holiday joy. I had gone to meet a friend about two hours away for the day. It was a beautiful day and I loved being with her. On the way home, after some conversations with people on the phone and a few conversations from earlier that were marinating, I began to feel the wave of overwhelming anxiety seep into my brain and collide with my heart. I was questioning everything, wondering if I was even hearing correctly from the Lord, sad about leaving home and craving the comfort of a scheduled and well insulated life. I was coming undone and frankly unable to see the road through my tears. Typically, I would weather this type of thing alone, with the Lord, but I felt strongly that I should reach out to a friend who had been processing a bit of this with me lately. She began to pray and to calm my nerves and to remind me who God is and what he’s spoken, a safe place to receive the “Hey Han, I don’t think I’m ok right now.” And It was comfortable enough to have a bit of the “over the phone encouragement” knowing my tear stained face was camouflaged in the dark and I could hold myself together enough to save face.
It was then that she said “Hey, I’m driving to Fort Smith tonight. I’m going to come pray with you in person.” I felt that initial prick of “this is uncomfortable,” but there was a part of me that knew I needed it. I needed a friend. I needed a physical presence – someone to fight in the spirit with me. I remember saying “Are you sure? You don’t have to. I think I’m better now.”
Praise God for friends who see through that crap – amiright?
When she came, she was calm and joyful and put me at ease. We sat in my room and she shared some scripture with me that encouraged me to stay the path. We prayed together and both of us heard from the Lord. I remember thinking again “Is this what adults do? I feel like a teenager that needed a bestie but I’m THIRTY ONE years old. Shouldn’t I be over this type of rescue?”
I fight that a lot. I starve myself of physical affection and doting from friends because there is a voice inside my head telling me “you’re too old for that,” “you don’t need that anymore,” “that’s immature.”
But I’m realizing that this is just another way that the kingdom is upside down. Our submission to being childlike is multifaceted and our desire and need to be cared for is a natural and beautiful aspect of submission to the Lord and humility before others.
Hannah asked me to lay down and try to fall asleep while she picked her guitar and sang sweet songs to the Lord right next to me. It was the sweetest most tender way to end the battle that night and I was so thankful to have her. She would later tell me that the Lord gave her eyes for me like I was her child she was lullabying, precious, tired and in need of rest. I believe that. I believe the Lord gave her His eyes that night and I believe her submission to Him and my letting her love me was a picture of the Lords love for us both.
Ari
A week ago I told my squad leader, Ari, that I needed to go see a doctor. There was a rash on the back of my neck and up my scalp that hadn’t gotten better and though I fought it and ignored it and itched it and refused to give it any merit, there was a still small voice saying “Go get that checked out. Today.”
Ari offered to go with me – already a sweet sentiment since I felt no need to have someone hold my hand through a doctor’s visit. Ari said “Going to the doctor alone is sad, Lindsey.” I remember thinking “That sounds like something a little kid would say.”
But Ari, in her infinite compassion, was already committed to walking with me through whatever we were to find out.
We had to wait for a couple of hours and I was antsy, feeling guilty about being away from the team, thinking the doctor was going to tell me it was nothing, already punishing myself for being “needy.”
When the doctor saw me he was full of theatrical exclamations that felt more Italian than Guatemalan. He used a microscopic camera on my head and neck and concluded that I had a staph infection that “must be dealt with immediately!” “You must come back and see me in five days!” “You must stay out of the sun and no more sweat!” “You must use this cream and this spray and this pill and this soap.”
I walked out of his office a bit dazed having felt corralled and in a stupor. “A staph infection? How random.”
When I met Ari in the lobby where she had patiently been waiting behind bars might I add, I had about six things in my hands with instructions and receipts and loose change as I said “I have a staph infection on my head and I’m going to have to put all this stuff on it twice a day.”
She didn’t miss a beat. And I didn’t even have to ask. She signed up to be my personal nurse before I had a chance to object.
We both knew I wasn’t going to be able to see the sores myself and we both knew someone would need to help and we both knew it would be vulnerable and I would feel gross and icky and needy. And she knew I hated all of that.
At the same time as the voice in my head began “You’re going to be a burden for Ari. She’s going to get so annoyed she has to administer all these treatments. She’s busy too…..”
Ari interrupted the procession with “I’m so glad I get to be the one to do all your treatments, Lindsey. I’m so glad I get to be here with you through all of this. I love you so much.”
Now if that isn’t the voice of the Lord, I’m not sure what is. Truly. How am I supposed to respond to that level of adoration and doting? Was it even true? Was Ari just saying that to appease my need for encouragement? Can anyone actually think that?
In the Uber home we began praying and laughing at the enemies random attempt to hurt me. “What a sucker,” Ari said. There was a joy and an unexplainable lightness that fell on us as we joked about Ari being my personal nurse for the next week, how I was going to look like a grease ball and how we would just muscle through it together, because life on the race really is that random.
When we got home, Ari began administering the first treatment. Basically she has to apply a spray to my whole head and neck sifting through my hair. Then she has to section off my hair as she applies a gel medicine to every single sore on my head – and there are many. She’s gotten faster, but that first application took precision and a gentle patience.
We weren’t prepared for what happened next.
About 5 minutes into the treatment, Ari said, “Uh Oh.” Not the thing you are looking to hear when someone is operating on a part of your body you can’t see. “I found a bug, Lindsey. Is this lice?” She made a sad face like she felt sorry for me already. I looked at it and unfortunately knew how to identify it since I’d picked it up once already from my last race. “Yep, it sure is.”
We both took about a whole minute to look forlorn until we began laughing again. “Are you kidding me?! The enemy is wack!” – Ari said.
Caught in a bit of a catch 22, you can’t use a chemical lice treatment shampoo when you have open sores on your head that are already infected, so the only hope is to pick out each bug and each egg until its gone.
That launched us into 8 hours of me sitting in front of Ari that day while she did this. We missed ministry. I had to tell the team I was infected and watch the horror as they all wondered if they would get it too.
And Ari was whispering sweet things to me all the while.
When she sensed I felt ugly or dirty, she would pray over my head asking the Lord to remind me how beautiful I am and she cursed the bugs and the eggs and the staph.
That night she gently massaged an olive oil treatment over my sore filled scalp that oddly mirrored anointing and it wasn’t lost on me that the Lord wanted to pour out attention and physical love on me in that moment. There was nothing I could do. There were no excuses that made sense. I had to sit down and let her help me, let her love me.
Without prompting, she frequently sees me and smiles, saying “you’re doing so good Lindsey. You’re being so strong and joyful through all this.” Sometimes she comes up to me and prays over my head at random. She has spent the last week administering two treatments a day that often interrupt her time in the morning with Jesus or her time to catch up on personal things. Not to mention the hours she’s spent picking bugs and eggs out of my hair.
She always greets me with joy because she knows it’s hard to ask and it hurts to be needy. And I’m left wondering, “How it is possible to be loved so freely? How does she have a mother’s love for me when I am a far cry from a helpless babe and perhaps even mimic a bucking teenager at times?”
Ari’s hands aren’t Ari’s and Ari’s sweet smiles and prayers on beauty and healing aren’t hers either. Ari’s actions are a physical manifestation of the Lord.
He’s mothering me. He’s tenderly asking me to sit down and feel His touch. He’s administering the ointment, praying beauty over me and begging me to accept His love. Over and over and over again.
I am left speechless at the way the Lord has shown through Ari and how I can have so much fun, laughing and smiling through the pain and the incessant itching.
Ari wasn’t afraid of me. She didn’t step away when she heard I had something that could easily have jumped to her. She didn’t even leave the bed we are sharing. She didn’t look at me like I was too far gone, too dirty or too dangerous. She stayed right there. She held on close and she promised she was going to see this infection through until I was fully healed. She held my face, called me beautiful and shared in my wincing through each treatment and each discovery of another bug.
Don’t you see? This is what the Lord does for us. He isn’t afraid. He doesn’t leave. He feels what we feel and calls us beautiful and worth it as he gently heals our wounds. He looks us in the eyes, holds our gaze and promises we’ll never be too old to be cared for, to be pursued and to be held.
I like to think I’m pretty good at taking care of myself, but I sure am glad the Lord promises to step in when I can’t and I’m even more glad He’s teaching me to let Him.
