Serving Through Weakness -By Eris
Only a few weeks before, I had flatly rejected my mom’s offer to feed me. I was in my mid-teens, the oldest child in the family, the one who tried to help out wherever she could and very rarely asked for help herself.
I wanted to keep it that way.
But that day, as I struggled through my meal, the pain increased with every bite I took. My wrist ached every time I raised my spoon. If I continued, I knew that the tears would come. I wouldn’t be able to hold them back. I wasn’t sure that eating was worth this level of pain. I quietly laid my spoon down on the table, gazing down at my meal in defeat.
Slowly, quietly, through months of wrist pain, the Lord had been breaking my pride. And so when my mom reiterated her offer, I accepted. As my mom gently spooned food into my mouth, I didn’t feel the humiliation I had expected. I felt vulnerable, yes, but I also felt relieved and comforted and loved.
My siblings didn’t laugh at me. They teased me gently, but I—unexpectedly—didn’t mind. It didn’t hurt.
As the months passed, my wrist pain fluctuated. Most days, I could feed myself, but on the days when I choked on tears of pain in trying to swallow my food, there was always a willing helping hand. Each one of my little siblings has fed me at some point. (Including my two year old brother--and I think he’s the one who most enjoys it.)
Not only have they fed me, my siblings have helped me out in countless little ways. Serving me at mealtimes, taking notes for me, drawing diagrams for me, carrying objects for me—and the list could go on.
Through those months, I watched my siblings grow gentler and more eager to help, and I felt myself growing humbler and more willing to accept help. They’ve been thoughtful and caring and cheerful about helping me, and I’ve slowly learned that permitting yourself to be served can in itself be an act of service.
We were all progressing well.
But God wanted us to go even further with it.
Last September, I came down with dengue fever. The first day I felt sick, I lay on the couch, my head aching, my arms throbbing with pain, refusing to move. My hair lay over my face, shielding me from the light. I vividly remember my toddler brother’s gentle, clumsy hands pushing my hair away from my face. “Eris?” he said in his little, quiet voice. “Eris?”
Later in the week, I remember my little sister sitting with me through the evening, ready to help with whatever was necessary. My memories are blurred by the fever and exhaustion and pain, but so much love was shown me then.
That week may have been the most miserable week of my life. I cannot remember a time when I was in more physical pain, nor can I remember a time when I felt that weak. By the time my mother decided to take me to the hospital, I was barely strong enough to walk.
I continued to weaken during the first couple days in the hospital. I couldn’t walk. I couldn’t sit up. I was too exhausted to even feed myself. My mother stayed with me through the day, and my father stayed with me through the night, and in that helplessness and exhaustion and pain, I learned further humility and gentleness.
The day I returned home from the hospital, our front door was decked out with balloons and a welcome home banner. My siblings ran out to greet me and hugged me gently. They were especially solicitous over the next several days, eager to run and fetch whatever I wanted, happy to serve me.
I was overwhelmed by the love they showed me, and I was grateful. Had I fallen ill a year earlier, I would have struggled much more. As it was, the Lord graciously permitted me to get sick at the right moment.
Learning to accept the service of others is something we all need to do. We miss out on so much if we insist on doing everything ourselves, if we never humble ourselves to be served. God intended for us to serve one another. He didn’t just mean for you to serve people in your community. He meant for you to serve by permitting yourself to be served.
This is the power and beauty of love.