I don't know what's taken me so long to ask for help. Pride I guess.
I flew to Texas a few weeks ago to teach Writing with Heart at a conference. This is hard to admit in a blog, but in order to go, I had to see a counselor. Yep, I was that afraid. Here are some of my fears:
1. What if I mess up?
2. What if I get lost? (I have a bad sense of direction.)
3. Flying scares me--and I've never flown alone.
4. What if it's not perfect?
5. What if I freeze and can't say a word?
6. What if nobody comes to my classes?
The first morning I taught, I wanted to hide under the motel bed all day. But when your name's listed on the program, it's not really an option.
"Help me, God. I don't want to do this," I said kneeling in my room.
Right before my first class, my hands were shaking so bad I couldn't attach my microphone. The techie had to put it on.
"Help me, God. I don't want to do this," I whispered.
This is the way the entire trip went. I asked for help. He sent it. And I wouldn't trade it for anything. Everytime I asked, He was there! He didn't leave me stranded. He showed up in cool ways too--like my room was a few steps from the hotel lobby. No way to get lost. God had a friend picked out for me on the faculty staff, a writer--even a redheaded one, like me. DiAnn Mills. She asked me to ride in her car with her. We ate together.
I think I probably learned more than my students. ♥ I learned to ask for help.