Confession: I lie to my friends. Repeatedly. To their faces.
It usually sounds harmless. “It’s really not a big deal.” “No worries, I’ve got it.” “This is about it.” And my personal favorite: “I’m okay.” I’ve said some version of these to people more times than I can count. One of my finest performances took place at a conference.
It was the last day, and I’d been working on the registration team, which meant it was pack-up time. If you’ve ever worked registration, you know it’s never just a couple of boxes. It’s boxes, printers, reams of paper, folding tables, bins of lanyards nobody wants to count or untangle, plus my own luggage and random stuff I’d collected over the retreat. So in and out of the dormitory I went, arms loaded, making trip after trip to my car.
Just a few feet from my car stood two friends, chatting about the conference and life. Every time I passed with my arms full, they asked, “Need some help?” And every time, I gave them the same line: “Oh, no, I’ve got it. This is about it.”
It was NOT about it. I’d walk back inside and there’d be another pile. So out I’d come again, arms full, and they’d ask again. “Nope, I’m okay! Almost done!” Trip after trip. Lie after lie. I was gaslighting two genuinely good friends just so I wouldn’t have to receive a little help.
By the final trip, they’d had enough. They turned to force their help on me, and of course, this time I was actually done. Lovingly annoyed, they gave me the obligatory hard time while I shut the car door with the satisfaction of someone who had Done It All By Herself.
Car loaded. Pride intact. Help successfully avoided. I had earned a break. A well-done, I’m-an-independent-woman, look-what-I-did-all-by-myself break. So I strutted back inside, spotted the couch, and plopped down like a queen claiming her throne.
For about three seconds, life was good. Then the throne… shifted.
Getting up to investigate, I found the culprit: the back foot, a known problem child, wasn’t screwed in properly. Easy fix. The only issue was I couldn’t lift the couch and put the foot in at the same time. Hmm. Think, think, think. How do you lift a heavy couch and keep both hands free?
I know! I’ll wiggle underneath, hold the couch up with my back, and pop the foot in. So I got down on the floor, scooted under the couch, and started pushing up. And it was working! Yay! Make a plan, work the plan! Somewhere, Rosie the Riveter was flexing in solidarity. I could do it!
(Editor’s note: Rosie’s poster actually says “WE Can Do It!” The author failed to read the fine print. More on that later.)
Just then, the couch shifted again. The weight came down on my hip at exactly the wrong angle, and I couldn’t get a knee, an elbow, or any other body part under me to push back up.
I was stuck. Under a couch. Wicked Witch of the East style. Half my body pinned beneath a giant, pink, grandma’s-living-room couch, with my legs sticking out from the calves down. All I was missing was the ruby slippers.
And there I was. I needed help. The same help I’d been dodging for the past half hour was now the only way out.
After a few more minutes of think-think-thinking, I remembered Siri could call my friend, who was, of course, standing right outside. So after a few more minutes fighting the embarrassment of what they were about to walk into, I made the call: “Hey, can you come inside? I do need your help.”
I heard them walk in, and as expected, they had no idea where I was. So I took one more hit to the pride: “Over here… under the couch.”
There was some laughter. Honestly, I’d have laughed too. But more than that, there was pity and grace, as the two of them lifted that pink monster off of me. And then, rightfully, they let me know the whole thing could have been avoided if I’d just let them in a whole lot sooner.
We’ve been talking about what the Church actually is. The word is ekklesia, the called-out ones, an assembly gathered for a purpose. And part of that purpose, it turns out, is making sure nobody ends up pinned under the couch alone.
Paul puts it plainly: “Bear one another’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ” (Galatians 6:2). Then just three verses later, he says, “each person will have to carry his own load” (Galatians 6:5). Wait, what!?! Which is it, Paul?
Word nerd moment. In verse 5, “load” is the Greek word phortion, a word used for a soldier’s pack. Daily gear. The stuff that’s truly yours to carry, like your choices, your obedience, and your own walk with Jesus. But in verse 2, “burdens” is barē, a heavy, crushing weight. The kind that pins you to the floor and won’t let you up.
So yes, I can carry a printer. But a couch on my hip? That’s barē. I’d been turning down help with the backpack stuff for so long that by the time the crushing stuff landed, I’d trained myself not to ask.
I don’t think I’m the only one. We say “I’m okay” long after it stopped being true. Sometimes it’s pride. Sometimes it’s not wanting to be a bother. But when we keep people at arm’s length during the easy trips, they’re not close enough to lift when it gets heavy.
Paul says the whole body grows and builds “itself up in love by the proper working of each individual part” (Ephesians 4:16). Each part. Sometimes our part is being the friend by the car who keeps asking. And sometimes our part, the harder one, is actually saying yes. Turns out Rosie had it right all along. WE can do it. Emphasis on the we.
I wish I could tell you that day under the couch was my final lesson in lying to my friends, that I walked away fully humbled and never said “I’ve got it” again. Sadly, no. I still feel the pull to carry things on my own. But more and more, I’m finding that when I trust others to help carry the load, the load isn’t nearly as hard to carry.
And when the lesson takes longer than God is willing to wait, He’s kind enough to bring a certain picture to mind: me, flat on the floor, legs sticking out from under a giant pink couch. And He asks, “Do you need something bigger to fall on you this time?” It’s the gentle shove He so often gives, for my good.
So this week, let’s practice both. If we see someone hauling more than they’re letting on, let’s keep offering, even after the third “I’m okay.” And if we’re the ones making trip after trip, let’s try saying the words that would’ve saved me a bruised hip and ego: “Actually, yes. I do need your help.”
Because the Church was never meant to be a bunch of strong people making every trip alone. We were called out, called together, and called to carry. Preferably before anyone ends up under the couch.