Excuse Me

Excuse me, my fingers are in the door…

Growing up with a large extended family, all of which lived far from town, it was certainly not uncommon for us to carpool. Most of the cousins were relatively close in age and many of us participated in the same extracurricular activities. All the moms took turns picking us all up from our bus stop and after school practices.

Eventually the day came that the oldest cousins got their driving licenses and were able to taxi everyone back and forth. This brought much excitement for all the cousins as there were no more long waits for one of the moms to arrive. No more phone calls reminding them to pick us up. Yes. You read that right. Sometimes the moms forgot whose turn it was!

Every so often, the lucky adult was Uncle Glen, who made the ride interesting to say the very least. To this day as I drive through Houston, I still find myself noticing the old abandoned house that he convinced us was once the residence of George Washington.

In the summer before my 7th grade year, the cousin car rides were to and from band camp. We would all pile in and often picked up friends along the way. The ride home was equally as crowded as it included dropping friends back by their houses as well.

To better paint the picture, think about the circus act where clown after clown endlessly exits a tiny car. That was us!

As the youngest and smallest of the crew, my seat was often in the lap of someone else. It usually wasn’t too bad. I mean, at least I could see where we were going and I didn’t get car sick!

One afternoon in particular our car seemed especially full. I was the last to squeeze in as they instructed me to climb on top of the people in front. Once I was seated, off we went. Everyone was laughing and talking about the day. I didn’t mind listening to the conversation and I usually stayed pretty quiet.

“Excuse me,” I said sheepishly. “Yes?” said the girl whose lap I was sitting in. “Excuse me, my fingers are in the door.”

In our rush to leave, she had not noticed that I was still grasping the top of the door facing as she pulled the car door shut.

Today, as I was thinking about that afternoon, I couldn’t help but think about all of the times we are suffering, but we are too afraid to ask for help. Our hurts and our scars, we keep to ourselves. We stay silent and imagine that no one cares, no one would understand, and that no one could help.

Exodus 17:12 But Moses hands were heavy; and they took a stone, and put it under him, and he sat thereon; and Aaron and Hur stayed up his hands, the one on the one side, and the other on the other side; and his hands were steady until the going down of the sun.

Even Moses needed help at times.

Relieving the pain in my hand that day was a simple fix. I asked for help, they stopped the car and opened the door. Granted, I had some bruises and some swelling, but the problem was solved and healing was soon to begin.

Maybe you are dealing with something that you are afraid to ask for help. Don’t wait. You are not alone. You have brothers and sisters in Christ that can help.

Sometimes having the courage to speak up is the only thing needed to start a path toward healing.