March 24, 2021
Whenever I hear of some one having
a problem, or facing a hurdle of some kind, my first instinct is always to
reach out and try to help. I’m not telling you that as a form of bragging. It just
is part of who I am. As far as I can recall, I’ve had that trait from the time
I was a child in bed at night, listening to my mother crying because of her
arthritis.
She had osteoarthritis—the same
kind that I have. Her ability to walk was so impaired by the time I was a new
bride that she had orthopedic surgery on both knees in the last five years of
her life. I don’t know all the medical details, but it did help her pain levels
considerably. She needed a walker for a time and then graduated to the use of a
cane. But the prospect of having the surgery—being a nurse she knew all that
could possibly go wrong—resulted in a huge weight loss for her.
To this day I remain convinced
that the sudden change in her weight (from a size 26 to a size 12 in less than
three months) was the cause of the fatal heart-attack she had in her 57th
year.
As I would listen to my mother
at night, I asked God to please give me her pain, so she wouldn’t suffer so
much. It was the only thing that I could think to do. I believe that need to
help her was born out of my sensitive nature. I have been accused on various occasions
over my lifetime of being overly sensitive. The accusation had merit because I
was and still am exactly that. I consider this a flaw with a positive side,
because if I didn’t have that sort of personality, I likely wouldn’t be an author—or
at least not one that I’d care to be.
I believe with all my heart
that the reason we are here on this earth is to help one another. I’ve been
told by some that I have a servant’s heart. That pleases me and would make, when
all is said and done, a darn good epitaph.
Having said all that, one of
the hardest things I’ve had to learn in life is that sometimes I can’t help. Or
more to the point, sometimes I shouldn’t. It’s hard for me to recognize when
those moments arise. I’ve helped people in the past in one way when perhaps it
would have been better for them in I hadn’t. There’s an old saying: give a man a
fish and he eats for a day; teach him how to fish, and he eats for a lifetime.
It's a saying that I sometimes
need to remember.
There are days when I wonder
if I will ever get that balance right. But I have to be honest with you. I don’t
let myself stew over it. When I think about it, I’d rather err on the side of
generosity than to find myself becoming less generous of spirit, and more of a
curmudgeon. If I’m to be found guilty of anything I would rather be convicted
of giving too much to others than not enough. Of saying yes to requests too often,
than not enough. In other words, I’d rather have it said I was too open a
person as opposed to being too closed up and self-centered.
I rebelled against my nature
when I was in my late twenties and into my thirties. I spent several years being
bitter and resentful with a chip on my shoulder I didn’t think could ever be
removed. It wasn’t life that did that to me, as I had sometimes proclaimed then;
it had been my reaction to life that did that. That chip and the resentfulness
matched the cynicism in my soul, and I didn’t even understand where I had gone
until someone commented that I was a very bitter woman and that was an
unattractive trait.
I didn’t like that honest
assessment, but more, I didn’t like the way I felt inside, as if there was only
blackness, a stinking mass of blackness created by a choice I had somehow made,
and an attitude I had somehow allowed to grow.
Once I realized all that, I
made the conscious decision to let it all go. I prayed like I had never prayed before,
and I forgave everyone who had ever, if only even in my own mind, “done me
wrong”, and I asked for the same forgiveness for myself.
Many years later I can attest
to the fact that life is not perfect as I play around in my September years.
There’s a bit more pain than I’d like, I forget words here and there, but I do
have times when the pain eases and the words flow. People can still annoy me, and
under the right circumstances I can deliver a zinger that hits its mark with
astonishing precision. But that blackness is gone, and sitting here now, I can
barely remember it. The chip is gone too, and overall, I am content.
Life is an interesting
experience. And I know when I get messages from folks who tell me my words
helped them, that everything I’ve gone through to get me to this point, it all
played a part in that help I was able to give with my words. And getting those
words to give to others is one of the best rewards in life there is.
Getting them, giving them, touching
others—that’s what I’d call a prize more precious than gold.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
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