ready
“Bite,” I say, smiling broadly, spooning some yogurt into Riley’s mouth as she slides tiny earrings—butterflies, taking flight—into her ears, her hair water painting shade into the shoulders of her uniform shirt. She laughs wild, buoyed by the knowledge of love, and I am meanwhile transported back to early days, when I spooned pureed vegetables into her baby mouth and cleaned her chin with the side of the spoon.
I wonder over the broken idea we can crumble into that growing up means needing less support from each other, because isn’t it actually the most immature little shiny-haired humans who yank their stubby fingers back from the hand of another to proclaim, ‘I do it myself’?
I make jokes, calling myself Riley’s multitasker, because we both know her linear mind only lets her operate sequentially, and we both know that if leave to her own devices, she’ll be running out the door to grab her ride to work carrying half her things in plastic bags tucked into the top of her purse. For some autistic reason, she just can’t make herself take a bite and then chew while she puts on her jewelry and brushes her hair and ties bows into her shoelaces, but if I am with her, standing to the left of her chair and holding the spoon, nudging her gently to take a bite, she is able to eat without getting tangled up in her thoughts or feeling anxious about getting things out of order. She leaves certain things to me and then laughs with wild joy over trusting me, and it is the soaring sound of freedom.
Riley feels no embarrassment about needing me this way. In fact, one morning recently, when I told her I had postponed a meeting with friends, explaining that I did so because I know she needs my support and attention before she leaves for work, she smiled and said only, “Well, I’m glad your friends understand.” Just that, and then she folded her hands in her lap and looked at me, ready to begin what we have taken to calling our process.
As I get the glass of water Riley will use to wash down her morning vitamins, as that water splashes and babbles, pooling and rising like some kind of living stream, I can’t help but think that this intimate knowledge and practical, steady care only reflects the greater realities of my life with God as my shepherd bearing the yoke beside me.
I’m not sure I’d remember to breathe sometimes except that He is my breath.
I had, in fact, been thanking Him just this morning for being my daily bread and the lifter of my head, my sustainer and provider and trustworthy friend, praying back those Psalm 139 words—you know me…you discern my going out and my lying down; you are familiar with all my ways. I had been acknowledging Him as the One who knows the things I could never know, the One who weaves together uncountable plotlines into His own one big story. I had happily agreed, yes, you are my shepherd, and so, I lack nothing.
Funny thing, but sheep don’t seem to know any insecurity in needing their shepherd, in receiving help, and yet we sheep perch on the edges of sofas and nod knowingly while another needy, sheepy person we love tells us it’s hardest of all to be accepting of help, that they don’t want to burden anyone by being in need, as if our needing one another isn’t an everyday fact. Needing is part of being human.
What if, I’m wondering, as I spoon another bite of yogurt into Riley’s mouth, as she turns toward me and away from some kind of methodical murmuring that accompanies an absolutely over diligent use of her hairbrush, what if we could all adopt Riley’s humble acquiescence, could simply nod and acknowledge our need by saying, “Well, I’m glad you understand that yes, I need you, that yes, you can love me best by being here for me”? What if. Because Kevin and I have actually given thanks, many, many times, that Riley doesn’t resist or turn away from our help, which frankly makes it a whole lot easier to love her, and I wonder what could happen if, even more than accepting help from each other, we ordinarily, diligently, expectantly sought to receive it from God as an everyday blessing?
What if we pray like people who know our need and believe in God as our ever-present help in everything?
It’s puffed up, really, weak with empty bravado, to suggest we ever accomplish anything on our own.
No, I am exactly like Riley, sipping my coffee in the mornings with God at my core, alive and awakening me to co-labor with Him as an act of worship, to keep on feasting on the daily bread of Him, to keep on receiving His strength and generous grace, His love, even while I’m putting on my shoes to go. Maybe instead of calling myself Riley’s multitasker, I should tell her that I’m really just another reflection of Him.
Have you heard that many smart people, perhaps correctly, now label multitasking a human myth? They say that no mind, not even a neurotypical one, can really manage more than one thing at a time, that we fool ourselves into believing we can actually accomplish several things at once when instead, we only expend unnecessary energy by forcing our single-track minds to switch tracks—sometimes far too many– repeatedly and quickly. They say that the herky-jerky firing of all those neurons and motor sequences produces very little efficiency and severely hampers the quality of our effort.
If that’s so, it seems wise to stop trying to multitask our way into an illusion of independence and start admitting instead our critical need for communion.
Come to me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest, Jesus promised, and it was David the poet-king who called God our ever-present help, and aren’t we so silly and immature to believe that doing more ourselves trumps the harder more effective work of practicing trust and receiving the love on offer?
“Okay, lookin’ good. I think my hair is all brushed,” Riley says in her singsong way, passing the hairbrush to me as I unfold her socks and lay them across one of her thighs, her eyes sparkling bright with affection, because it isn’t just the help she’s receiving from me but my presence that somehow offers her strength, my love and comradery, the relationship between us that somehow prepares her more than any completed list of tasks ever could.
I smile, knowing this is so, not only because of what I can read so clearly now on her face or the steady way she’ll walk right out the door when she leaves, but because over the years it’s been the relationship I have with God by grace that has cultivated fruit from my life, this without a doubt, and not the things I’ve tried to do without Him.
“Okay, I think you’re ready,” I say to Riley now, clearing away the tools we’ve used, the vessels, resting a hand just lightly on one of her shoulders, where the fabric of her shirt still feels damp against my fingers.
She laughs again, wonderfully free, a bubbling over of grace, getting to her feet and pushing back her chair, and says brightly, “Oh yes, I’m definitely ready.”
