Be Open to Receive

It started with chills. Then came the sweating. Then the nausea. You know that special brand of misery where you start bargaining with God and swearing off dairy forever? Yeah, that one.

Hoping it was just something I ate, I did what any sensible woman does when she wants to feel better: took off my bra, put on sweatpants, and lay down on the bathroom floor “just for a second.” You know, the place where all good decisions are made.

It felt like a blink, but when I opened my eyes again, the room was dark, the floor was cold, and I had that groggy feeling of “Wait, what year is it?” My husband was away on a work trip, and the house was eerily quiet. Which every mom knows is not a good sign.

I tried to roll over, only to be hit by a tidal wave of nausea. “Uh oh,” I thought. “This is not good.” Then I spotted my phone—just an arm’s length away, like a beacon of hope. I reached for it, intending to call for help, but as my hand hovered over the screen, the voice started.

You know the one. That shrill inner critic that sounds like a cross between your high school gym teacher and a Pinterest-perfect mom. “Are you sure you’re REALLY that sick? Are you sure you want to inconvenience your friend? Are you sure you can’t just tough it out?”

I froze. No, I didn’t want to ask for help. I wanted to handle it. I always handle it. But then, cutting through the guilt and pride, came a much quieter voice: “You’re lying on your bathroom floor. You don’t know where your children are. Call your friend.”

So I did.

Within an hour, my bathroom had turned into a mini urgent-care clinic—three friends, two of them doctors, all crouched beside me with thermometers and Gatorade. Turns out, I had the full-blown flu. Over the next three days, my friends tag-teamed childcare, delivered soup, and even called my family to come help. One doctor friend slept on my couch. (You know you’ve found your people when someone voluntarily spends the night in a house filled with your children and their germs.)

By day four, when I finally emerged from my room looking like a pale, bewildered cavewoman, the house was spotless. My mother-in-law was cooking dinner. The kids were happy and fed, and apparently, no one had missed me nearly as much as I expected.

It was humbling—beautifully, painfully humbling—to realize that while I was literally on the floor, my people were there to pick me up.

“Each one should use whatever gift he has received to serve others, faithfully administering God’s grace in its various forms.” —1 Peter 4:10

I used to read that verse as a to-do list. “Go serve! Go give! Go pour yourself out!” But then I realized something: for every giver, there must also be a receiver. And sometimes—much as I resist it—the receiver is me.

Maybe you, too, are in a season where God is whispering, “Let others love you.” Don’t fight it. Be open to receive.