He's too busy. I know he's off today. But he probably has a to-do list longer than the now-deceased centipede that was recently evicted from my shower.
It will take too long to text him three sentences.
I don't want to selfishly bother him. It is his responsibility to say no if he can't help, but still.
He repeatedly vocalized his willingness to help, and he could arrive in five minutes. Well, speed limits only describe the lower limit of his speed, so actually two minutes but….
But asking for help requires the excruciating admission that I'm not Clark Kent or God. My maturity is too short to reach out for help. It's much easier to richly nourish my pride if this difficult task is completed with aid from me, myself, and I. We make a fantastic team.
If I shatter a bone or tear a muscle, I can embellish my story with bravery and strength. Everyone will admire the humor that I skillfully weave into my tale.
If I die, well I died trying.
If I succeed, the only one worthy to bask in the limelight of glory is me. Sure, I can say God created the neurons necessary to accomplish this task. But do you see my valiant efforts? Do you notice the depth of my dazzling deftness?
Even if you don't notice, I do. All. The. Time.
I don't stop and ask for directions when my GPS is drunk. I carry 50 bags of groceries up the steps in one trip. I move my gargantuan desk to the curb without a dolly. I set up tables faster than the other volunteers. I refuse to request your help.
And don't you dare have the audacity to ask if I need help or have prayer requests. Saving my pride has priority over saving time and energy. I know you are supposed to be the hands and feet of Jesus. And I realize we would both be blessed through the fellowship of this situation. But, seriously, stop expecting me to exercise humility. I don't do that.
Cease your futile efforts to ease my death grip on pride. Let my pride calcify my heart. Allow it to anchor my eyes to your weaknesses and my strengths. Ignore pride’s death grip on my compassion. And for the love of myself, do not speak harshly of anything that composes my identity. Regardless of any truth that is present in your words, it will mortally wound my pride.
If you must offer your help, help me to disguise my pride as humility. My ears insatiably itch to hear your praise. My ability to lucratively mask my motives with the sweet fragrance of humility is the best Lanacane. The more people who believe I'm as humble as a bumble bee, the better.
Inevitability, my pride will be discovered. It will be an explosion uglier and deadlier than a hairy frogfish. But until then, I don't want your help.
