A Helping Hand

Michael Jastremski for openphoto.net

“Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor:  If either of them falls down, one can help the other up.  But pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up.  Also, if two lie down together, they will keep warm.  But how can one keep warm alone?  Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves.  A cord of three strands is not quickly broken” (Ecclesiastes 4:9-12, NIV).  

The winter before getting married, I wrote the above verse down on creamy white paper in my best cursive handwriting, cut it up into sections, and taped them into a picture frame for my fiancé’s Valentine’s Day gift, along with a photo of myself.  I took out the part about two lying down together to keep warm and replaced it with an ellipsis, since we weren’t married yet and I was uncomfortable with the way it sounded. 

A few weeks ago, I took the frame to the thrift store, along with several other boxes of household goods and clothes that had been sitting around, collecting dust in our tiny apartment garage.  I took the photograph and verses out before packing it back into the donation box.  Removing the verses took me some time to do, since there were three panes of glass inside the burgundy frame, layered to give the picture display a 3-D effect.  As I slid the thin squares of glass out and picked at the old, stubborn remnants of tape with my fingernails, I recalled the way I’d felt when taping the passage inside, which was—perhaps surprisingly—uncomfortable.  Not in the way I’d felt about the “lying down together” part, but in the passage as a whole, and my understanding of it.

I’d had plenty of close relationships with family members and friends, but I didn’t feel like any of those relationships quite matched the level of intimacy implied in the passage.  And though Ryan was my fiancé, I knew we hadn’t achieved that depth yet.  It was beyond my comprehension, but I knew instinctively that to arrive at such a depth would require a lot of time—and hardship—which is what made me want to gulp every time I looked at the passage.

That was part of the reason I’d packed the frame away in the first place, content to have it camping out in our musty garage instead of proudly displayed on some shelf in our home, along with our treasured keepsakes.

In the photograph, I was lying on a couch on my stomach, propped up by my elbows.  My hair was down, and I was wearing a glittery red shirt and jeans, looking vulnerable, yet also relaxed and happy. 

Looking at the picture made me feel vulnerable, too.  I never really gave pictures of myself to other people—especially not ones like that.  Although Ryan had said he’d liked it, something in me never quite believed him.  I always felt awkward picking it up when I had to dust his night stand or setting it back out whenever we relocated, which was another reason I finally just kept it packed away. 

I didn’t like feeling vulnerable—especially not with Ryan.  I didn’t like the thought of exposing the hidden messes in me, those crude and underdeveloped parts he’d had yet to see.   I was OK with the thought of picking him up when he fell, but for me to be the fallen one?  That was unacceptable. 

Well, it turned out, I did fall, and Ryan saw parts of me that were impossible to keep covered once we got married.  I couldn’t cook, couldn’t use 99% of the kitchenware we’d received for wedding gifts, couldn’t drive in a big city, couldn’t interview for a job to save my life.  I couldn’t do so many things.  Rather than an adult within a marriage, I often felt like a little kid playing house.  I knew how to decorate and embellish and make everything polished on the surface, but when it came to so many of the inner workings of a properly-functioning household, I sucked.  I normally don’t say the word “sucked,” because I find it vulgar and unnecessary, but in this situation, I find it necessary. In my roles as a wife and as an adult, I sucked. 

I was the most pitiable of women, and it wasn’t due to my lack of knowledge in the spheres of marriage and adulthood.  It was because of my hesitance to accept help.  Ecclesiastes 4:10b says, “But pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up.”  That was me, but it wasn’t by sheer misfortune.   It was by choice.     

I was like the dismissive eyeball in 1 Corinthians 12, where Paul describes God’s children as parts of a body.  In verses 20 and 21, he says, “As it is, there are many parts, but one body.  The eye cannot say to the hand, ‘I don’t need you!’ And the head cannot say to the feet, ‘I don’t need you!’”  Though I’d always interpreted the eye and the head to be the stronger ones in this passage, I now saw how they could also be the weaker ones, refusing the assistance of the strong, desperate to prove their capabilities as independently-functioning members.  I was the eyeball, pushing away my husband’s helping hand.

Thankfully, I eventually learned to open up and accept Ryan’s help.  And it was a good thing, because we weren’t getting far without it—neither me, because it was hard for me to move forward when I’d curled myself up into a sullen little ball, nor him, because he wasn’t about to just step over me and keep walking on his own. 

With his gentle, loving support, I’ve been able to grow leaps and bounds beyond the point I was at eight years ago when we got married.  Ryan loves me similarly to the way Paul describes Christ’s love for the church in Ephesians 5:25-27 by bringing out the best in me, helping to cleanse and iron all of my stains and wrinkles.   

I still have a ways to go in terms of opening up to him—the thought of sharing my love for singing with him makes me want to shut myself up in a closet, and I pace the room every time he reads something I’ve written—but I know that, together, we’ll be able to move past even the most unyielding of barriers.  Though I don’t claim to have apprehended the level of intimacy described in the opening passage even yet, one thing I do understand:  two truly are better than one.