Everyone wants to be the hero of their own story.
But we all need rescuing sometimes. In our darkest hours we call out for a miracle. Someone to help relieve the burden we are forced to carry. That is the truest form of humanity; the ability to cry out and the ability to heed that call.
I think I am strong…most days. By now, I know you all so well that you will tell me that I am more then I am. In good conscience, I must let you know my beautiful friends around me keep me humble. “You are just okay….. Honestly, you are not that great”. 
. They lovingly joke (I think).
So it is hard for me to seek rescuing. I am a romantic in thinking the ending is better if I overcome adversity on my own. The realist in me insists that is impossible.
I am slowly understanding my own strengths and the challenges I face. Let’s be clear it won’t be playing indoor soccer ever again.
For what is life without lessons? Lessons we learn ourselves, lessons others may teach us or cruelly; lessons that are thrust upon us savage in our learning them.
Ryan was 11 or so when Scott took him out to Gido’s farm. While Scott and his dad were out in the back forty, Ryan decided to go biking with his cousin. The necessity of wearing a helmet lost on them while riding down the hill on the gravelly road. Ryan swerved to avoid a divet and subsequently fell off his bike. Scraped and bruised, he lie there in shock. Unable or certainly unwilling to move. His cousin went to run off to get Scott to help.
“Please don’t go, “ he begged crying. “I don’t want to be alone.”
So she sat with him. Holding his hands as he cried. Until Scott came to find him.
You have no idea how this story wounds me now in the retelling.
All of his life, my son had someone holding his hand. To kiss his brow, to soothe his tears, to chase the monsters from his bed.
Every day, until the early morning of February 18th. This lesson so cruel and absolute.
I so want to be the hero. To do what we have been unable to do thus far.
It feels like our darkest hour.