Last Friday I fell off the curb.
Skinned both knees.
Twisted my ankle.
I guess since the concussion, my balance and depth perception are still not quite what they should be.
At least I didn't tear holes in the knees of my pants.
Why is it that when we fall in public, we feel so embarrassed we won't admit we are hurt? Our school's dean of instruction happened to be standing nearby and ran to help me. A young man, a student, helped me get back on my feet. Both of them wanted to help me back into the building, carry my things, get me a drink of water. But I kept saying, oh no, I'm fine--even though obviously I was *not* fine. My knees hurt. My ankle was swelling rapidly. I had to lean on someone to get to the car when Wick came to pick me up. But I just would not admit that anything was wrong.
Don't we do the same thing to God? I know I do. I get depressed, sad, angry, and I won't ask for His help. I want to do it all by myself. His hand is outstretched, and I push it aside. Sometimes, He just takes hold anyway; He takes charge, straightens everything out, puts me back on my feet again when I am strong enough. And I am so thankful that He is always there. Like my friends who saw me fall, He may be laughing, but He is still helping me up, dusting me off, and carrying my burdens.