When “I Can Do It Myself” Is No Longer Working

As I sit down to write my first blog post in what feels like a very long time, I’m clinging to the last bits of long days, and barely remaining rays of sunshine and warm weather. There is something about this liminal space between summer and fall that always makes me reflective. Maybe it is the cooler air during morning walks or watching the light change, that reminds me of how transition never asks for permission. Whatever it is, this season causes me to consider the year I sketched out against the one that’s actually unfolding in front of me.

There have been a few wins along with some disappointments, lags, and projects that never even got out of the starting blocks. One of those areas is my writing. Incomplete thoughts are still living in half-filled notebooks, while blinking cursors wait my attention. There are also prayers that seem to have been sitting unread in God’s inbox for a long time now. Before I get too far into assessing what has or has not happened, however, I keep returning to one of my most memorable experiences from this summer: my husband and I babysitting five-year-old twins and their four-year-old sister. Our adventures with them included mornings at the library, going to see a PAW Patrol movie, and bowling, not to mention plenty of made-up songs and backseat commentary from them.

Oh, and on three consecutive Tuesdays we took them to bike-safety lessons, which we didn’t really even know was a thing. Yes, my friends, I can testify that there are actual classes nowadays to help children learn how to ride a bike safely. As a child of the ’80s, I remember a different approach. My dad removed my training wheels, held on to the back of my bike, and followed behind as I wobbled, pedaled, and fell a few times. At some point, he let go—without announcing it—and in time I got the hang of it.

Somewhere between Happy Meals at McDonald’s, getting the wiggles out at the park, stopping for ice cream, and holding impromptu dance parties, these three little people began reshaping me. Without knowing it, they were helping this recovering eldest daughter, for whom hypervigilance has been a lifelong companion, learn a few essential biblical principles all over again.

In Matthew 18, Jesus tells his disciples that unless they change and become like children, they will never enter the kingdom of heaven. I’ve read these words many times, but spending even a brief season of life with these children invited me to interact with them in ways that ran counter to my learned habits of self-preservation, shaped by the neglect I experienced at their age.

Children are honest about their needs. When they are hungry, they tell you. When they are afraid, they reach for your hand. When something hurts, they cry. And the more comfortable they feel around you, the goofier they are and the more they’ll at times try to push boundaries. When they are tired, well…sometimes they have a complete meltdown in a public place. They’ve not yet learned to dress their need up in respectable language or conceal it beneath competence.

Generally, they do not pretend to have everything under control. I, on the other hand, have become quite skilled at appearing capable.

Anne Wilson’s song “Sunday Sermons” makes me emotional because I remember being that little girl—“seven years old, third row pew”—hearing John 3:16 and believing, without qualification, that God moved mountains. There was an indescribable assurance that God was powerful, present, and near.

I did not yet have a sophisticated theology for disappointment. I hadn’t accumulated decades of prayers answered contrary to my expectations, closed doors, or delayed dreams. I simply believed. Of course, growing up requires releasing a certain kind of childhood innocence. That’s natural and necessary, and good. We gain wisdom, develop judgment, and accept responsibility as we mature into adulthood.

But somewhere along the way, we can lose holy wonder along with naïveté. Childlike dependence gets replaced by counter-dependency or compulsive independence, as we embrace the delusion that maturity means needing less: less help, less tenderness, less reassurance, and, if we are honest, less of God. We may never say it aloud, but our lives begin to communicate, “I can do it myself,” or, with halfhearted trust, “God, I trust You, but let me help You out.”

At some point, I adjusted to the erroneous belief that God moves mountains out there, in the lives of others, while treating my own life like everything depended on me. It is an exhausting way to live. An unregulated nervous system stuck in fight-or-flight mode, unable to fully rest, as pessimistic as could be, is not fun or effective. Even so, exhaustion alone has not stopped me from trying.

If I am honest, although it has been almost 40 years since I walked down the aisle at the age of nine to give my life to Christ, there are areas of my life where I still fail epically. I wish surrender were a lesson mastered once and never revisited, but I am learning that it does not require me to deny the places that are tender or terrifying. Instead, it means bringing those feelings to God without editing them first, allowing myself to be seen when I do not have a clue how to solve the problem, locate the grand takeaway, or turn the struggle into a song of triumph.

It is saying, “Father, I need You,” and resisting the urge to follow it immediately with an explanation of everything I’ve already tried for like the sixth time.

This surrender is not passive. It requires me to loosen my grip on control and humbly repent of making self-sufficiency an idol. It requires me to stop treating God like the backup plan I call after my own plans fail, and to begin being resolute with the truth that I cannot do this life well by myself.

I need God’s loving arms to steady me, guide me, and hold me through every wobble. I need the humility to admit when I am tired and the vulnerability to confess when my hope feels fragile. I need to take off the training wheels, unclench my hands, and trust that my Father has not lost sight of me, even when I cannot feel His hand.

And when I become unsteady—and I will—I am learning that I do not have to pretend otherwise. I can simply call out, “Father, I need You,” trusting that He sees and hears me, and is working even in the dark.