I have always been a bit of a mother hen. I watch what goes on around me and try to take care of those that I can. It comes naturally for me. So, it’s difficult for me when I am the one needing care. Last week was one of those times.
Last week we were finishing up our weekly AWANA club meeting. The room was warm and the active group of kids just made it warmer. We were playing the quiet game with our Sparks while we waited on their parents. I was supervising. As I was sitting in the front watching the game, the room seemed to start moving. The longer I sat, the faster it went. I realized that I needed to do something before I passed out in front of the children. I asked Mrs. Mickie to keep track of the kids and went to the back of the room. From comments that were made later, I think my skin tone could have been described at pasty white. Mr. Wayne watched me sit down and began to ask questions. He quickly got a cold drink and some cool towels for me. I’m sure I looked very lady like sprawled across the row of chairs, but the floor was the only other option. After cooling off and getting some sugar into my system, my world was right again. Things stopped spinning and I could carry on a conversation. As the room stopped spinning, it was very humbling to see the concerned faces surrounding me.
Through the weekend, others have made a point to check on me. I’ve been asked all sorts of questions about what happened and what might have caused it. There have been some doubtful looks and some head shaking as I have brushed off the concerns of other issues. I have been the recipient of true caring from my friends. I am again reminded that it’s okay to need others. And, I am very grateful.
Often n my efforts to prove that I am a strong and capable woman, I am able to forget that I need the caring of others. I’ve been a widow for eight years and I continually fight my mental picture of what a widow is. I grew up to think that widows were old, helpless and dependent. I’ve worked hard to prove that I “can do this!” I’ve tried to be everything that my children need in order to make up for missing their dad through their teen years. I’ve tried so hard to never show any cracks to anyone, that I sometimes convince myself that this is the “real” me. I tell myself that I’m on my own and I don’t need anyone else. I refuse to think about how much I need the love and care of others, how much I actually crave it. And then the room begins to spin out of control.
And the I remember: I just need to open my eyes and let the room stop it’s spinning long enough to notice that others do care.