Permission to Ask
The ultimate measure of a man and his character is his ability to pull himself up by his own bootstraps. Assistance is a sign of weakness. At least, that's what people will tell you. And for the longest time, I believed them. I think many of us do. Sometimes this leaves men building a bridge to nowhere. We just assume this is the way: to stumble, to endure silently, to try and build a house without ever asking for a hammer. The struggle of acting like you can juggle it all leaves many men drowning. That's where I found myself recently. Drowning. Acting like I just needed a little more time and a better plan before I could make a move. Believing, even in my darkest hours, that I was still unworthy of help because I hadn't proven myself yet. “Be a man,” I would tell myself.
A few days ago, I was meeting with my mentor. During our conversation, he turned to me and said, "Write this down. Raise your hand." He paused. Thinking it was a call to action, I literally raised my hand. He laughed. "No. Put your hand down." He motioned at my notebook. This time, I started to write. He continued. "Now draw a line from that, and write these words: Ask for help." Before I could say anything, he added more context. He began to tell a biblical story of a woman who’d been hemorrhaging for twelve years. The text notes she had spent every dime she had on doctors, physicians, anyone who could help her. But instead of getting healthier, she grew worse. Now, bankrupt, she was desperate. That day, she’d heard the man from Galilee was in town; preaching and healing people. In the center of town, a massive, chaotic crowd had formed around him. All wanting the same thing, a miracle. Asking for his help was one thing; getting to him was another. But she wasn't waiting until she had the perfect pitch or the right opening. She started pushing her way through the crowd. The noise was too loud; the mass of people was too dense. She could just barely see him. Had she come this far to be denied? No. There was no turning back. So with all her might, she leaned forward, arm outstretched as far as it could go, fighting to break through the wall of people. And then she touched him. Barely. In an instant, she was healed. But the story doesn’t end with the touch. The teacher stopped. He turned, searched the crowd, and asked who’d touched him. Trembling, the woman came forward. She recounted her story. She thought she wasn't worthy of his time and had settled for the bare minimum—a silent reach in a chaotic crowd. But he did her one better. He stopped everything to acknowledge her, validating that her unorthodox plea was heard.
My mentor had been noticing a theme in our conversations. Fear. Fear of asking. Thinking I’m not deserving, let alone ready. What he was telling me was that ready isn't a feeling. Ready is right now. You don't have to have it all figured out. That's what the story illustrates. Push through the crowd. The crowd of fear, pride, perfection.
Raise your hand. Ask for help.
