The Helper

I'm pretty sure when Jesus said He would send a "helper" to always be with me, He wasn't referring to my 9-month-old. And yet--she is always with me. Unfolding. Unloading. Undoing. Helping.

At least her knees make a great dust mop.

Kids aren't convenient. And yet, in the age of birth-control, my mom still had three. (Kids--not condoms.)

And I'm glad about that. I'm glad she spent so many years refolding.
Reloading. Redoing. And while it sounds selfish to say that, it's not so much the work she did--but the fact that she was there.

When I stumbled and fell, she was there.

When I sounded out words, she was there.

When I brought home my first A, she was there.

When I had mind-numbing seizures, she was there.

When I walked down the aisle, she was there.

When I graduated from college, she was there.

When I gave birth to my daughter, she was there.

When I got my first book contract, she was there.

And now, more than ever, I want her to know: I want to be there.
As I watch her struggle with chronic pain and difficult treatments, I feel somewhat like that 9-month-old-- "helping".

What do you say to the strongest woman you know? What can you do for the person who gave birth with no anesthetic and walked through life with even less? She felt my pain so many times, and I would do anything to take hers.

And so, at the risk of breaching her privacy (hey--I wrote about condoms--how much worse can it get?), I do the only thing my childish mind believes will "help". I ask you to pray for my mom.

Because the woman who has helped so many would never ask for that help herself.