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I thanked him. “I’ll read them a little later,” I said.

He put them on the table and smiled. “Is there anything else?”

“No, no, that’s all I need. Thank you.”

Once I had opened the door and allowed someone to do something kind for me, I realized it wasn’t so hard after all. After he left, I began skimming through the magazines. I wasn’t really reading, because I kept thinking about what had happened.

Jay was right. I had cheated them out of the opportunity to express their love and concern.

About forty minutes later, a woman from the singles group came to see me, and we went through the regular ritual of chatting. “How are you doing?”

“Fine.”

“Well, can I get you anything?”

“No, I . . . I—” Again, Jay’s words popped into my head. “Well, maybe a strawberry milkshake.”

“Strawberry milkshake? I’d love to get one for you.” I don’t think I had ever seen her smile so beautifully before. “Anything else? Some fries, maybe?”

“No.”

She dashed out the door and came back with the strawberry milkshake. “Oh, pastor, I hope you enjoy this.”

“I will,” I said. “As a matter of fact, I love strawberry milkshakes.”

Later, I imagined members of the congregation standing outside my door comparing notes. “He asked me to get a strawberry milkshake.”

“Yes, and he let me run an errand for him.”

Just then I realized how badly I had missed the whole idea. I had failed them and myself. In trying to be strong for them, I had cheated them out of opportunities to strengthen me. Guilt overwhelmed me, because I could—at last—see their gifts to me.

The shame flowed all over me, and I began to cry. This is their ministry, I thought, and I’ve been spoiling it. I felt such intense shame over not letting them help. When I finally did open up, I witnessed a drastic change in their facial expressions and in their movements. They loved it. All they had wanted was a chance to do something, and I was finally giving that to them.

You need to get your act together. For the next several hours those words of loving rebuke from Jay wouldn’t go away. Tears flowed. I have no idea how much time passed, but it seemed hours before I finally realized God had forgiven me. I had learned a lesson.

In spite of my condition, not many people could have pulled off what Jay did. That experience changed my attitude. Even now, years later, I still fight with allowing others to help, but at least the door is now ajar instead of locked shut.

Sometimes when I’m emotionally low or physically down, I tend to brush people off or assert that I don’t need anything. Yet when I can open up and allow others to exercise their gifts and help me, it makes such a difference. Their faces light up as if they’re asking, “Will you really let me do that for you?”

I had seen my refusal as not wanting to impose; they saw my change as giving them an opportunity to help.

I’m eternally grateful for that lesson of allowing people to meet my needs. I’m also grateful because that lesson was learned in a hospital bed when I was helpless.

Someone brought a plaque to me in the hospital. At first, I thought it was supposed to be some kind of joke because it contained the words of Psalm 46:10: “Be still, and know that I am God” (niv). Perhaps it was meant to console me. I’m not sure the person who gave it to me (and I don’t remember who it was) realized that I couldn’t do anything but be still.

Yet that plaque contained the message I needed; it just took me a long time to understand.

Weeks lapsed before I realized that part of what I needed was to be still—inwardly—and to trust that God knew what he was doing through all of this. Yes, it was a verse for me, even though it wasn’t one I would have chosen.

God forced me to be still. By nature I’m not particularly introspective, but I became increasingly so; I had no choice. I could do little else—other than feel sorry for myself. The longer I lay immobile, the more open I became to God’s quietness and to inner silence.

Eva found a beautiful version of that same verse engraved in gold and gave it to me as a gift. The plaque is