I was nearing the end of my walk, approaching the last bend before the wide-open field, when a voice startled me.
“Guys, I need help!” a child’s voice cried out from beneath the bridge.
I paused, looking toward the direction of the voice, when a group of kids, like a swarm of bees, suddenly appeared just ahead. They barreled across the field, heads bobbing, arms pumping—barely putting on their brakes before reaching their friend beneath the bridge.
There was much commotion, but none of it alarming. It sounded good and right—like when help comes. When there’s thankfulness and back-to-normalness. So I paused, relieved, and resumed my walk toward the wide-open field.
With the voices of children behind me, I replayed the sequence of events: the child’s cry, the children running, their rescue, and his wellness.
I remembered times in my life when I’ve cried out and dear friends have come running. When they’ve listened patiently on the other end of the phone. When they’ve cried with me, hoped with me, and waited with me. When they’ve simply come with their presence and stayed long into the night.
And then I remembered times when I’ve been the one running. To hospital rooms, living rooms, parks. When I’ve been the one on the other end of the phone, sending late night texts, and praying middle-of-the-night prayers.
Life allows us many opportunities for both: To be the one crying out and the one receiving help. Both are good.
Last summer, after my daughter spent a week at camp, she shared a story with me. On her last day of camp, she was walking beside the lake with her friends when they noticed a fallen tree in the water. It stretched out before them beside the shore. They decided to walk across it, like a family of ducks, one after the other. At one point, my child’s foot slipped and sunk into a thick and muddy bottom. Her shoe stuck in the muck and she couldn’t pull it out. She felt afraid, losing balance and began imagining being sucked deeper and deeper until she was finally gone altogether. So she cried out, and immediately, her friends turned to help. They took her hand, pulled her out, and found an adult to retrieve her sunken, muddy shoe. It’s one of many stories she has tucked in her memory bank of friends coming to her aid. This is a gift. We should all have memory banks filled with the aid of our friends, and we should all be filling their banks as well.
There will be times when we walk across fallen trees and slip. Times when we’re sinking and have no idea how we’re ever going to get out. Times we wonder if we’ll ever get our muddy shoe (or whatever else we’ve lost) back. How good to know that we don’t enter these spaces alone. How comforting to know that when we slip and fall, our friends will be there to help. To stretch out their hands. To hear our cries and cry with us. To come to our aid.
In varied seasons and circumstances, let us taste the comfort of receiving help and being help to others.
The words of Ecclesiastes 4:9–12 ring true:
It’s better to have a partner than go it alone.
Share the work, share the wealth.
And if one falls down, the other helps,
But if there’s no one to help, tough!Two in a bed warm each other.
Alone, you shiver all night.By yourself you’re unprotected.
With a friend you can face the worst.
Can you round up a third?
A three-stranded rope isn’t easily snapped.
That day by the stream, a three-stranded rope held strong.
She is the author of The Good News for Little Hearts series and lives with her husband, two daughters, and two cats just outside of Philadelphia.
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