Helpers helping the helpless without shame: love

​Elliott and Ian were leaving to go home last night. I walked them out. As they got in Elliott's car, I noticed that one of Elliott's tires was low in air. So I told him to stop and put some air in it on the way home.

Elliott got out of the car and came to inspect the tire with me. He said, "I think it's okay."

It obviously wasn't, but in that moment, I knew there was a reason Elliott was hesitant to accept that. So I explained where he could get air on the way home, and how the automated air inflation machine works at Wawa. I told him he should check all of his tires while he was there.

Then he said words that broke my heart. He said, "I don't know how to do that."

You may be thinking those words broke my heart because he didn't know how to put air in his tire. Quite the opposite. My heart broke because I know how hard it is for someone to admit they don't know how to do something to someone who they fear might see them as stupid for not knowing how to do it.

I know the kind of bravery required of "I don't know how to do that."

I have become much freer with saying those words these days. I've become much freer in owning that in some of the generally accepted - or projected - gender roles of a man, I have very few of them.

I'm not a great mechanic. I'm not a great builder. I'm not a great do it yourselfer. My hands do much better at writing with a pen and waving around when I'm speaking than they will ever do fixing anything. In some of the stereotypical corners of the world, I am not a manly man. But in my world these days, I am quite fine with that.

That hasn't come easy, I have wrestled with that most of my life. And it's not a wrestling that serves you well in most relationships. Especially in relationships that require you to work on projects together, that sometimes require someone to fix things, and where those projects might leave you feeling exposed as incapable or inept or broken.

Sometimes that's because of the stories the person you're with will tell you, directly or implied; or equally often it's the stories you'll tell yourself because they are the stories you've been telling yourself all of your life.

So there I was, looking at my kid on the other side of him saying, "I don't know how to do that." And I said, that's okay, follow me.

I led him up to the local gas station, to the air machine, and we put air in all of his tires, which were all dreadfully low. I showed him how to use the air machine, (While also showing him the value of having a Ziplock bag full of quarters in your glove compartment 😊).

I am grateful this morning for that experience. So grateful. A simple low air experience was an extravagant step into healing on so many levels.

A situation that could have at one time left me feeling less than brilliant was a situation that left me feeling like far more than enough. And a situation that I hope helped me assure one of the most important people in my life that what he knows about air has nothing to do with how I feel about him.

A situation that I hope helped build into my son's identity a freedom to say "I don't know how to that" without fear of it making him look like less of anything in my eyes, especially less than a man. Because the truth is, I was far more proud of having a son who could say "I don't know how to do that" than I would have been of a son driving off knowing how to put air in his tire.

We are all faced with those opportunities from time to time. An opportunity to help someone without spending a lot of time deciding whether or not they should be able to help themselves.

It's what I love most about Jesus, I think. How he was always good about showing up to help the helpless without ever shaming them about their inability to help themselves. Jesus always saw that gap between the helpless and the helper as a chance to show love.

As I knelt down putting air in Elliott's tire last night, watching him watch the numbers rise to the right spot on that air machine, that's what I felt, love, love like I've rarely experienced.

And I think Elliott felt it too. As he got back in his car he said "thank you". It's not like that's the first time he's ever said it but in that moment it felt like it was.

In that moment it felt like love.

Love without shame.

Love.