I asked MIL this question earlier today, as I sat at her dining room table, nursing my arm, crying a bit after a 40-minute tantrum (which included pulling my hair, hitting, and kicking – but thankfully, no biting), and in general feeling sorry for myself.

Her answer: “I just did.”

Yeah, like I have room to feel sorry for myself. I know.

But when I limped out of the house, chip looming on my left shoulder, with a sink overflowing and baskets of unfolded laundry and no hope in sight, to leave Hubby some silence for studying before dinner at MIL’s, I couldn’t help but notice that the weather and my mood had a lot in common.

Last night, during Mass, it occurred to me that I am not humble enough. I’ve had offers of help – people who would come over and do my dishes, sit with me and keep my spirits up, pray with me on a moment’s notice, bring me steaming dishes full of yummy dinners. Why have I been rebuffing them? Are they not Jesus to me? Do I have some desire to be miserable, and to drag unsuspecting victims (namely, Hubby and Toddler-tron) with me?

So, though the clouds are about a foot off the ground, and I’m feeling quite a bit like Eeyore’s fate is my own, I guess I should just say, “Thanks for noticin’ me.” I guess I should say, “Yes, thank you” to the people who are going out of their way to be like Jesus. I guess I should give them the opportunity for grace that a corporal work of mercy will surely give them.

It’s just not easy. My durned pride keeps getting in the way. And so I will take myself back to the foot of the cross, where I’m in company with my Mother, who has been here with me through this challenging process. I’ll think of how Jesus allowed people to serve him and how he praised the humble.

Ah, Lord, help me to accept help. Help me to let go of my pride.