Broken Pride

This past Sunday I had a bout of heat exhaustion, bordering on heat stroke. One of the first things to go is the ability to assess one's well being.

It was hot. It was humid. Temperatures were in the mid-90's F (35'C) and climbing. My husband and I agreed that it was NOT a day to walk to church. So we drove and climbed the stairs up from the parking lot.

At the top, I couldn't catch my breath, but blamed it on the high-level of humidity. Inside the air conditioned church, however, I still couldn't breathe and my head spun. My husband touched my forehead and arm, noting I was cold and clammy. But he gave me the final decision.

Usually, I am very stubborn, especially with my own health. I don't want to be a burden on anyone. I was also raised with strict lessons that one never "makes a scene." Mass was about to start; we couldn't walk out now. My pride shouted, "Soldier on!" Every moment of childhood upbringing called out, "Don't make a scene! You'll bring shame to yourself and others. This is a church; behave yourself! Just stand there and wait for Mass to end."

I wavered with indecision, but a more recent training kicked in. This is a choice between pride and allowing God and others to help me.

The decision was made as the room spun and I could barely comprehend what others around me said. I looked at my husband with eyes that clearly read, "Help me."

I was seated in a nearby back pew, then he ran out to get the car and bring it to the nearest door. I think I had lost all color as those around me were mentioning something about my face. I had stopped sweating suddenly; a bad sign, I realized in hindsight. But at that moment, I was dizzy and trying to figure out what I had done wrong. Guilt danced in my head.

Pride wanted me to stand and fit in with the rest, but it was now broken. I was following what the Spirit inside told me to do. Something is wrong; let others care for me. 

The ushers noted that I didn't stand with the rest of the congregation but instead sat with my head forward on my arm. When they came over, they were concerned. I told them my husband was getting the car and they insisted on staying with me until he got back.

They thought I was keeping my head forward and focusing on breathing. The truth was I was trying to stop people from seeing my tears. People were gathering and whispering in the pews all around. Mass was continuing. My pride shrieked of my guilt! I WAS MAKING A SCENE! IN CHURCH!!!! I should be ashamed!!!!

But then, someone touched my arm asking what they could do to help. I looked up with a tear-streaked face and answered again that my husband was getting the car to take me home. But when they asked again, I smiled a wavering lopsided smile and added, "A prayer would help too."

That was it. It clicked in my mind. Getting past the pride, I was opening a way for God to help. I was opening a way for others to reach out to God. Yes, they were in church for a Sunday Mass already, but sometimes the real purpose of prayer is lost in the ritual.

I prayed too, before and after leaving church. I was thankful too. God had found a way to help break through my stubborn pride. And this time I didn't need to pass out in order to get the point across.

The choice between pride and God is always there. Even in the midst of a personal storm.