If only I could learn to be ‘well pleased’ with my weaknesses

“Do you want me to cut your meat for you?”

I’d chosen meatballs labeled “tenderloin” from the buffet, but tender they were not. I’d hoped they might be easily cut with a fork.

But no. These were gray balls of tough, overcooked steak, and I had only a fork and butter knife to saw bits off each lump. One-handed. Maybe one-and-a-half handed.

For my left hand and wrist were splinted and my thumb was immobilized. Movement and strength were lacking even from my free fingers.

My boss already had held my plate for me as I proceeded through the buffet line. I was reluctant to admit I needed help to cut my meat, too.

So, despite his offer, I attempted the task myself, managing to eat one ball of meat and a bite of a second before deciding hunger was better for my injured hand.

The back story

Two weeks before, I had had surgery to relieve severe arthritis in my basal thumb joint. The surgeon had removed the trapezium bone — the top bone of the wrist that abuts the base of the thumb. To replace it, he removed part of a tendon in my lower arm and rolled it up to act as a cushioned graft beneath my cleaned-up thumb bone, as well as connecting it to my index finger.

To make my thumb doubly secure, he added stainless steel buttons — one to the base of my index finger and one to the base of my thumb bone. He connected the buttons via a braided rope made of suture material.

Since I also had carpal tunnel issues, he did a quick carpal tunnel release surgery, too.

Four incisions. A missing bone. A repurposed tendon. Two silver buttons and a rope.

My hand rather reminds me of Frankenstein’s monster — or like Freddie Munster — even with the stitches removed now. In time, these surgical changes will yield a fully functioning, pain-free hand.

Eventually. Not now.

The fallacy of a ‘non-dominant’ hand

I’m right-handed. You don’t realize how much you depend on your non-dominant hand until you can’t. Like when you’re blowing your nose. Or holding a jar so you can remove the lid. Or trying to peel the paper wrapper off last year’s cough drop, sticky from Florida heat and humidity.

Without the use of this non-dominant hand, I can’t tie my sneakers. I can’t button my clothes. I can’t fasten a necklace or add backs to a pair of earrings. I can’t eat or drink and drive at the same time. I can only drive. Turning the steering wheel takes monumental effort.

(Yes, I’m driving. No, I’m not losing weight.)

Hand therapy is hard, but I don’t think it burns as many calories as HIIT class or swimming laps. Neither do the treadmill or stationary bike. Any effort I might have burned tending to my own nails is spent ($$!!) on getting manicures because I can’t manage my own hygiene.

I’ve invested in ponchos because my splint makes wearing long sleeves tricky, and it is winter, even in Florida. I might have to invest in a housekeeper.

But I’m still learning how to ask for help.

Therein lies the rub

My husband doesn’t come to my rescue when he sees me struggle.

“You need to ask for help,” he’ll prompt me, when he sees me fail at opening a bottle of sparkling water, for example.

He knows how important it is to ask. He knows how hard it is for me to do so.

Or say “yes,” actually, when someone offers help.

Why?

On my first outing alone to the grocery store, I wheeled my cart with one hand. As I exited the store, one of the managers noticed my splint and then offered to help me to my car.

I should have said “yes,” but my “no” was automatic — as were the tears his unexpected kindness prompted. They made me hurry despite my disability. I didn’t want to explain why I cried.

I’m not sure why I did. His kindness? Yes. But knowing my need for help, too.

It’s humbling needing help.

But I need to recognize this

Oh, who am I kidding? I need help every day — not just when I’m healing from surgery!

The Apostle Paul said he was “well pleased with weaknesses, with insults, with distresses, with persecutions, and with difficulties, for the sake of Christ; for when I am weak [in human strength], then I am strong [truly able, truly powerful, truly drawing from God’s strength]” (2 Corinthians 12:10, AMP).

I know I need to be fully reliant on God’s strength to live each day, but I haven’t mastered being “well pleased with weaknesses.” Maybe my hand can help me with this.

Knowing and living the truth are not the same thing. My head knows how much I need God — but my ego tells me “I can do it myself.” With pride. I have often considered myself like the fabled “Little Red Hen” — though I am not little or red-headed nor do I ask for help before declaring “I’ll do it myself.”

(I’m also not a chicken. Biologically.)

My misplaced confidence

Paul struggled with pride, too, which God kept at bay with a “thorn” in his flesh to keep him humble.

Paul pleaded for its removal, but Jesus responded with “My grace is sufficient for you [My lovingkindness and My mercy are more than enough — always available — regardless of the situation], for [My] power is being perfected [and is completed and shows itself most effectively] in [your] weakness” (2 Corinthians 12:9a, AMP).

Then Paul began to boast — because of his weaknesses — saying, “Therefore, I will all the more gladly boast in my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ [may completely enfold me and] may dwell in me” (2 Corinthians 12:9b, AMP).

Five weeks post-surgery, my hand is improving daily, and I’ve learned workarounds so I can better live without relying on it. I can blow my nose with one hand and open a jar using tools. I’ve tossed the box of old cough drops and find it much easier to unwrap cough drops not stuck to their wrappers.

And though I still can’t tie my shoes or manage buttons or jewelry, I can do many things without help.

Physically.

The heart of the matter

But spiritually? I’m trying to embrace my inability to live the Christian life in my own strength. I’m forsaking spiritual independence and my DIY nature and, instead, asking our triune God for help.

I look at my weak hand as a reminder of my greater weaknesses and my desire for the power of Christ to enfold me completely and dwell in me.

Like the pair of kitchen shears now dwelling in my office.

The day after the buffet, I brought leftover filet mignon for lunch. I gently heated this tender cut of meat in the microwave, then sat at my desk — thinking my steak knife would enable me to eat.

It didn’t. I still couldn’t cut it. And my boss didn’t stop by to offer his help.

Dear Reader, I prayed for help, opened my eyes, and saw the office scissors in my pen holder. Inspiration from above. I used them to cut my meat to avoid going hungry a second day.

The next day, I packed a pair of kitchen shears in my lunch bag.

They now dwell in my desk drawer, at hand when I need them again, but also serve as a reminder of my need for Christ’s power to dwell in me daily.

I just need to ask for help.