I have a problem. Most days pass without me giving my problem a passing thought. But, some days, my little problem slips up on me, laughing maniacally at my fright when I realize it’s presence.
My problem is: I forget my age.
Sometimes this is literal. Like last year, when I was sure I was turning 37, having told people for a whole year that I was 36. Two weeks before my birthday, J. reminded me that I was only 35, turning 36. So, this year, I really had to stop and think when I told someone my age. Indeed, I am really 37 now.
Most of the time, my forgetting my age doesn’t involve telling someone the wrong number. It’s more like, hey I’m not much older than this group of high schoolers so of course, they think I’m funny and cool. Except that I’m really closer in age to their mother and my jokes are kind of lame.
Or, like this weekend, I find myself taking part in activities with my kids and pretending that my body can keep up with their unbridled youth. This past weekend, I chaperoned 45 kids from my church on a Fall Retreat. We were at a local camp and we had the most fun. The last day, just before we had our chapel service, we did a series of trust games.
Trust games involve trusting another person or group of people to either lead, catch or support you…sometimes blindly. The last game a trust run. Two lines of people facing each other extend their arms in front of them, blocking the path between them. A group of people who are not a part of the lines each take a turn running through the blocked path and just as they get to those extended arms (not too soon, just before!) the arms drop and let them through without them breaking their speed and without the arms knocking them to the ground.
Clear as mud?
Great. So, I was the final person to do the trust run because I was helping to keep everyone in line on task with the arm dropping. Just as I was about to take off in my sprint of trust, my foot slipped, turning my leg outward at a very odd angle. I heard a pop just as pain shot up from my calf throughout my entire body. I finished my run (thank you very much) and stopped at the end while everyone cheered, none knowing the pain I was feeling. Our gracious leader excused everyone to gather their Bibles and have one last potty break before our chapel service while I tried to compose myself.
Turns out, I tore a ligament and sprained a muscle in my calf. I’m now the proud owner of a fine set of crutches and a not so fine bruised ego.
Turns out, my jokes aren’t the only lame thing.
The irony of this entire situation isn’t lost on me. I injured myself during a trust game. My injury has me out of commission for my regular daily activities; meaning, I have to trust others to help me with the most mundane of tasks. This is so hard for me. I do not accept help very well. I like to be the one helping others not the one receiving help.
Isn’t this like our relationship with God? We go through life, saying that we trust Him. We help others when they are struggling to trust Him. But, the minute our lives fall apart and everything isn’t as tidy as it once was, that trust is tested. We find that all along, we were really trusting in our own abilities and letting go of that trust in ourselves in order to cling to Him, well, it isn’t as easy as we thought.