Muscle

I'm trying a new work out plan, and between that and spending most of my day on my feet, I'm thinking about muscles.  My body hurts when my muscles aren't used properly (aka soreness from bad posture, tense shoulders, that sort of thing).  My body hurts when I'm training my muscles to work properly (aka soreness from Jillian Michael's and her darn 30 Day Shred).  The goal is to get the point where nothing hurts, but so far, no good.  But I'm ok with that, as long as I'm still convinced I'm making progress.

Anyways, today I've also been thinking about metaphorical muscle.  My general approach for most of life includes a lot of muscling, do-it-myself, labor-intensive effort.  This has, generally, served me well.  I'm known for being a hard worker who finishes things, and people trust me with all kinds of projects.  My personality has also lent me the tendency to know what people need, and combining the twin forces of need anticipation and strong work ethic tends to make me a good friend.

Until.

Until what people need is more than I can do.  There is a point in time where I can't do something for someone, when carrying one more box or painting one more wall or volunteering one more hour to just show up and be there won't cut it.  Not because I'm not trying hard enough, but because what I have to give doesn't line up with what someone else needs to receive.  This has been one of the hardest life lessons of the last seven or so years.  When someone's heart is broken, there's only so much dark chocolate and red wine I can bring before we're both drunk but their pain is not numbed.  When someone's life is turned upside down, I can help manage a lot of chaos and I can cheerlead with the best of them, but I cannot quiet their heart.  I can run errands and do chores like a kick-ass assistant, but I cannot be the things that only that person is to the people in their life.  I can speak encouraging words but I cannot free someone from burdens they've carried for years.

And yet.

And yet, there must be something.  I'm not sure I believe there's a point where I'm allowed to sit back and say, "well, see ya later, and good luck with that _____."  I'm just sure of it.  What I'm not sure of is what I'm supposed to do.  I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to pray, but I have no idea how.  If I remember correctly, Paul (or someone else equally apostolic and important) said to pray without ceasing, and each of those darn letters that make up a good chunk of the New Testament include wonderful examples of how people prayed for one another in those days.  The answer to my limitations as a friend seems, quite obviously, to turn to the One who is limitless in both His love and His power.  Why can't I do that?

Humility.

I'm more and more convinced that I can't pray for others because of my own pride.  As long as I can muscle along and help someone myself, I can be proud of my strength.  Prayer admits that I can't do something, and need God to fill in the gaps.  My gaps.  The gaps of others.  The gaps of our humanity, our brokenness, our neediness.  It is easy for me to work hard, to move your furniture, to love your kids, to feed your cat.  While these things are sacrifices of my time and my body, and while they are always meant out of deep love for you and your family, they are not sacrifices of the deepest part of me.  When I can look you in the eye and tell you that I pray for you regularly, in addition to doing these other things for and with you, then you and I will both know that I have learned another layer of what it is to love sacrificially.  In the meantime, I'm going to keep muscling on, and try to listen more closely to the voice in my heart telling me that where one set of muscles leaves off, another must pick up, and just because I have yet to develop that particular set of muscles does not excuse me from the task at hand.