The Promise of Asking

"I want Jesus to walk with me, 

I want Jesus to walk with me; 

All along my pilgrim journey, 

I want Jesus to walk with me."

The lyrics, humming in my head as I awakened early one morning, surprised me. I've always found it difficult, sometimes impossible, to ask for help.  Probably the only person I ever could ask for anything was Daddy.  Because he was Daddy and I was the "Baby of the family." Or so I thought for years.  

Isn't it ironic that I could go to Daddy for new shoes, new dresses, new anything but it took me an amazingly long time to learn to ask  Father God, the Maker and Creator of all things, for the desires of my heart. It's when I graduated to high school and was on my own---out of the safe cocoon of elementary and middle school--- that asking gained traction.  Cause I had to. 

I needed to know how to get from English class to algebra in a huge, three level, block long building.  I used to think it was because I was an introvert, that more than likely accounted for my hesitancy.  Probably, I was just plain scared.  I willingly answered questions from teachers and students, but stammered if I needed to ask a question to clarify or confirm.  

I could ask questions in journalism class: how long should the news lead be; how should I frame a feature story on the winning basketball team; or how many column inches should a photograph be? But muteness followed me like a stray dog looking for a bone all the way through high school, college, and into the workplace. 

It just felt better if I didn't have to ask.  Was I afraid of a "No" instead of a hoped for affirmative? How far would I go to avoid rejection? Was that it? Probably.  I preferred not to dissect it too closely, better to let that "Sleeping dogs" lie.  Don't probe too deeply; I might uncover something I'd have to ask somebody about.

However, when my first-born grandson died of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS), the floodgates opened! Why, why, why, why, why became the chorus of a song without an ending.  A chimera that floated in and out of my subconscious with no warning.  I roamed new and used bookstores, libraries, and grief seminars searching for answers.  To no avail.

The death of loved ones, the ending of a friendship or even a casual relationship provoked the "Why" litany. poking out from wherever it lay dormant and torturing me. The whys resurged virulently  when Courtney died.  Simultaneously, muteness returned.  

Like a coward, I scurried far away from thought and emotion; it just hurt too much! I purposefully stopped asking God. Except for "Why did you let it happen, God? I'd screamed silently in night's anonymity and through to daybreak. "How could You?"  

So when I woke up that morning with "I walk Jesus to walk with me," I was sorely taken aback.  Had the rollercoaster of grief slowed down from its acrobatic twists and turns and opened my mind to ask what my mouth would not? Hmm. 

"In my sorrows, walk with me, In my sorrows, walk with me, When my heart within is aching, Lord, I want Jesus to walk with me."