Albert Schweitzer once said, “The purpose of human life is to serve, and to show compassion and the will to help others.” I believe he’s right. In fact, if we are to follow the example of Jesus, serving was his edict from heaven. Matthew 20:28 (MSG) says, “That is what the Son of Man has done. He came to serve, not be served—and then to give away his life in exchange for the many who are held hostage.”
I’ve found in my life, and in our culture, that it’s much more challenging to ask for help than it is to give help. Most of us jump at the chance, if we are able, to lend helping hands to those in need. But we tend to wear a fake badge of toughness if we are the ones in need of help. A judgment error I, like many others, have made is not asking for help when it’s desperately needed.
A few years back, my water heater went out. Several days of rain had flooded under my house and blown the water heater up. Don’t even ask why the water heater is under the house. That’s a different story for a different day.
Anyway, I prayed and asked the Lord to help me out. I told only a handful of people. A couple of them offered to help get a new one. But I resisted, knowing the Lord would take care of the problem. A full year went by. I took cold showers in the dead of winter, feeling every bit the role of a modern martyr “for the Lord.” The good news is that I never left the house not feeling totally, excruciatingly awake.
Life carried on like that for a year. Seriously, a solid year of taking many cold showers, washing dishes and clothes in cold water, and waiting for the Lord to come through. I didn’t accept the help offered, because I didn’t want to inconvenience others, and I didn’t want to appear needy. How stupid is that?
Finally, my brother-in-law, Jim, called and said, “Go buy a water heater. I’ll give you my card number. Your sister can’t stand that you’ve been taking cold showers for a year. That’s ridiculous. This is your Christmas present from us. And have someone else put it in. Do not, under any circumstance, attempt to install it yourself.”
I went to the local home-improvement store and bought a heater. However, I did not have them put it in. The heater cost only $300. Having them put it in would have added another $1,000. So I finally broke down and called my buddy Cliff Peck and asked him for suggestions on whom to call. He knows pretty much everyone with a specific skill in our little corner of the world. It was Christmas Eve. Within an hour, Cliff and his son Beaux were at my house, rolling out the old heater and putting in the new one.
But something happened with my electrical system after they left. All the power to my whole house got knocked out. I called Cliff back, and he gave me the number of an electrician friend of his. I called Larry Ward, admitting I needed help, and he said he would come out the day after Christmas.
So I was out of commission for a couple of days. Since my whole house is electric, I was out of water as well. But I knew help was on the way. Larry came out and worked all morning the day after Christmas to get my electricity going again. The whole time, I was nervous about the cost. When Larry was done, I grabbed my checkbook and asked him how much. He grabbed my hand and said, “Merry Christmas.”
He jumped into his truck, and as he drove out of sight, all I could think was And to all a good night.
I wasn’t sure which to do first: cry or go jump into the hot shower. So I combined the two. Best shower ever!
This year, the week before Christmas, the water heater again started acting up. The belt on my dryer broke, and on Christmas morning, I began making desserts for Christmas dinner and found the bottom element of my oven had burned out.
I called Larry and told him I needed help. He came to the house and crawled under. After removing the heater cover, Larry informed me that the bottom element in the water heater was burned out and told me exactly what I needed to repair it. Again, he wouldn’t accept any payment.
I went under the house to repair the heater, and when I pulled out the old element, I could see a lot of something white. I realized that my well water must’ve dumped a massive amount of calcium into the heater, burning out the element. I phoned Larry back, and he gave me the number of a plumber. I called him and told him I needed help. He told me he would leave a piece of rubber pipe out by the gate of his business. I could tape the red rubber pipe to a dry vac and vacuum out the deposits. He didn’t charge me for the tube.
It took me a couple of hours, but I was able to vacuum out most of the sediment and replace the element. I went to a parts store about twenty minutes away and told the guy I needed help, and I got a belt for the dryer. I replaced it, and it broke in the first cycle, possibly because I put it on backward. Maybe. I went and got another one and a couple of other parts. The guy said, “I want to help you. I’m only charging you wholesale for these.” I replaced the belt and, at the same time, got a new element for the oven.
So all is well right now. I’m learning that asking for help isn’t a weakness; it’s wisdom. Seeking help is the best way I can take care of myself. And there are obvious consequences in not seeking help.
As I’ve said, back in the 1980s, I worked at a restaurant in Nashville called Dalt’s. It was the place to be back in the day. Everyone hung out there—country stars and contemporary Christian artists. The restaurant is still there, and when I visit Nashville, I always stop by to see how it’s changed. Great memories. I could fill a book with the stories of our escapades, and fortunately, thanks to social media, I stay in touch with many of the folks I worked with.
One of my favorite memories is tied to the idea that it’s always a good idea to accept help when it’s offered.
We usually started the night shift with a ten-person waitstaff. As the evening progressed past the supper rush, we would OTLE (option to leave early). The manager used this option to have servers leave, beginning with station ten and working down toward station one, who was always the shift leader. It was the shift leader’s duty to make sure every person leaving did OTLE duties, which included stocking, cleaning, and getting everything ready for the next shift.
One particular night, we OTLEed down to two servers. I was in section three and had just finished my shift. It was about ten thirty at night. We closed at midnight. That left only two servers on the floor. That was fine because on a weeknight, having a rush was a rarity.
I, having just clocked out, sat down to order my late-night meal at our customary booth, table number ten. It was directly across the aisle from the expediter counter, where we usually made salads. Steve Ford and Cindy Johnson were the only two servers left on the floor; Steve was the shift leader. He knew everything was stocked and cleaned, so the last hour and a half would be smooth sailing.
It was one of Cindy’s first nights back after being gone for a few months. Several weeks earlier, late one night, Cindy had been on her way home from work and been involved in a horrible car accident near the restaurant. She’d broken her jaw and two bones in her arm and crushed a kneecap. Now, weeks after the ordeal, she came to work basically pinned together and proceeded with great caution.
When my food arrived, I sat back to enjoy it. I noticed a party of seven come in. Steve greeted them, grabbed some menus, and seated them at booth fourteen. He decided to take the table. Usually, when people came in that late, they just wanted appetizers and drinks or maybe a burger and fries. But no, these people wanted full dinners, all of which included dinner salads.
Steve came to the front and turned in the order. He then pivoted around to the salad station and proceeded to make seven dinner salads. I can’t remember what Cindy was doing at the time, but I told Steve I could help carry the salads to the table. Because we at Dalt’s all took pride in how many plates we could carry and because Steve was tall, with long arms, he said he could handle it.
I watched him prepare seven bowls of salad, stack four of them all the way up his arm, even above his elbow; perch one on his other wrist; and balance the final two between his fingers. I was impressed.
Carrying them with great aplomb, Steve walked around the counter; passed me at booth ten; whisked between booths eleven and thirty; and, for some unexplainable reason, fell flat on his back. I was excruciatingly proud of myself for not guffawing.
Those were salads one through seven.
Steve picked himself up and walked back to the counter. His face was beet red, so I chose to remain silent for a second or two. A busboy magically appeared, sweeping up the garden of salad between booths eleven and thirty.
Once again, Steve made seven salads, and once again, I asked if he wanted my help. It was now a point of pride for Steve, who said, “No! I’ve got it.”
Steve gathered up what was left of his composure and the salads in the same arrangement as before. Cindy, sensing impending disaster, grabbed a couple of them from him, and they walked around the counter, passed me at booth ten, and attempted to whisk between booths eleven and thirty.
From my perch at booth ten, I saw the whole ugly thing unfold as if in slow motion. Maybe Steve thought if he bent his knees and went into a knee-dip position, he would be saved. He even planted one elbow over the booth thirty railing, but to no avail. Unfortunately, gravity eventually won out, and he sat squarely and, I’m sure, less gracefully than he imagined on his rear end. Cindy, continuing at a full gait, promptly sat right on top of him. She managed to stand up reasonably quickly, and Steve jumped up with salad hanging precariously from his apron pocket and stormed back to the counter.
Those were salads eight through fourteen.
Steve acquiesced to yell, “Help on a run!” which really didn’t matter. Cindy was standing directly behind him. She stood sweetly by as Steve prepared yet another seven salads. Obviously, he was getting help this time, whether he wanted it or not.
As soon as the salads were made, Cindy grabbed three of them, Steve balanced the other four, and off they went.
They rounded the counter, with Steve in the lead and Cindy safely behind him. They passed me at booth ten and whisked around the corner between booths eleven and thirty.
There must have been residual salad dressing oil swimming on the floor. To me, Steve appeared to be trotting as if on a treadmill before he fell face-first. As he staggered, his leg hit Cindy, who fell directly on top of him. It was performance art, culminating in a dazzling firework explosion of salad greens, bright red tomatoes, crumbled bacon and egg, shredded cheddar, and croutons in every possible direction.
My first feeling was horror because of Cindy’s injuries. I jumped up and helped her to her feet as Steve, who had somehow miraculously ended up on his back with arms and legs flailing, conjured a startlingly good impression of an upside-down turtle trying desperately to right itself.
Those were salads fifteen through twenty-one.
As soon as I knew Cindy wasn’t hurt, I saw Steve once again at the counter. His face no longer wore a look of determination or even embarrassment; it was more resignation. Caught in a Groundhog Day time loop, he would spend all of eternity making the same seven salads.
After yet another trip to the salad station, he changed direction. He asked Cindy for help. Together they carried all seven salads through the bar and around the host stand to arrive at booth fourteen, safely delivering what, in Dalt’s folklore, became known as the Night of the Twenty-Eight Salads.
When the bedeviled greenery, cheese, and croutons were set in front of the now starving patrons at booth fourteen, booth thirteen was set by the host with four new customers. Steve, being as gracious as possible under the circumstances, took their order. Unbelievably, they all wanted dinners with dinner salads.
Because someone asked, Steve reluctantly rattled off the dressings: “French, Italian, blue cheese, ranch, Caesar, Thousand Island, and vinegar and oil.”
One of the patrons innocently asked, “How’s the Italian?”
Without hesitation, Steve, with chin quivering, muttered, “Slippery.”
