Helpless

Decades ago, I equated competence with knowing how to do things. It embarrassed me that I wasn’t sure I could change a tire in a pinch, even though I’d been shown. I’d never lived alone but didn't doubt my ability to do so.

My first “aha” came when my ten-year-old called me at work to say the toilet was overflowing. An hour away, I couldn’t run home to fix it. Instead, I told him to get the building maintenance number from the basement door and phone for help. By the time I got home, the plumbing was repaired and the mess cleaned up. Proud of my son for handling the problem so competently, I realized what mattered wasn’t whether he could fix the toilet, but whether he could get it fixed.

Fast forward to life in Wisconsin. My husband was out of town when half the power in the house went out. The electric company located the underground outage beneath our rear deck. They couldn’t do the repair until we removed all or part of the deck to provide access. I couldn’t possibly decide anything till my husband got home, I told them. Though it was true—neither of us would tear up the deck without consulting the other—it felt like playing the role of a simpering little wifey, helpless without her man.

I have the same sensation of playing a role when I carry a walking stick to board a plane. Everyone lets me jump the line. Seatmates lift my bag into the overhead compartment. I don’t need the stick to fly, but standing long or walking far is harder without it. So why this almost mischievous feeling that I’m getting away with something?

Perhaps it’s a mismatch between my strong, independent self-image and my actual present self. Now more than ever, I am blessed by the kindness of strangers. I watch for ways I can pass that blessing on. None of us are helpless while we help one another.

Image: Photo by Denny Müller on Unsplash.