asking for help

My son brings me tea each morning when I first wake up.  He gives me my thyroid. I crank up my bed to a sitting position and gather my morning prayers and the list of people I pray for. But since I got my new electric bed, once I’m cranked up, I can’t reach everything I need.  So, the other day I got ready to start and couldn’t reach my glasses.  I called to him.  “Joel, I can’t reach my glasses.” He came in and handed them to me.  “Isn’t there Life Alert for this sort of thing?” he asked.

He knows how I hate those ads.  “Help! I’ve fallen. I can’t get up!” And there’s a picture of a woman on the bathroom floor.  It’s never a man.  Men wouldn’t stand for it!  Instead of telling us what we can do to be stronger, the whole machinery of capitalism is geared to scaring us old women into buying their gadgets.

But my kids have got wise to me.  The other day when Foster was over, he asked if I’d like a cup of coffee, then thought better about it.  “Wait a minute! You are doing exercises when you sit down and stand up repeatedly.  You can get your own coffee.” 

Because Joel is so accommodating and kind, I ask him to do things I could do for myself. Sometimes I have to admit, it’s a manipulative cry for attention. Deciding when to ask for help, which I’m not usually good at, is a constant exercise in compassion and discernment.