The Beautiful Humility of No

Photo by Pellinni at morguefile.com

A friend reminded me recently of the importance of saying no. She knows me too well. I rush here and rush there, trying to use every minute to the maximum, and yet I always feel like I haven't done enough.

"Whenever you say yes to one thing, you're saying no to something else," my friend shared, and she is right. We cannot avoid saying no, but we have two choices. We may choose when we say no and how we say the word.

No can communicate a lovely spirit of humility. I am admitting that I am not superwoman. I am not God. I am weak and frail, and I cannot do all the things that are close to my heart.

No is also a word of trust. The apostle Paul exemplified this aspect of no. When the church at Ephesus asked him to stay with them longer, he declined, but he left his companions Priscilla and Aquila at Ephesus. He trusted them do the job (Acts 18:18-21, 24-26).

To be honest, I'm not a wonderful example of humility and trust like Paul. Too often I say no with a touch of frustration. Don't people understand how busy I am? I work from breakfast to bedtime. I don't have fifteen minutes free. How do they think I can do one more thing?

But I have a choice to make, and I choose to be more like Paul. I'll say no more often, and I'll say it with a heart of love that recognizes the importance of the thing I was just asked to do and yet shares my weakness and vulnerability. I want my no to radiate trust in God and others around me—I can't, but someone can. That is the beautiful humility of no.

Traveling Home

Photo by grandma613 at morguefile.com

This week has been a whirlwind of rescheduling as we cleared our schedule for Grandma's funeral today, but I'm glad we could be there. The ceremony was sweet with memories shared by my uncle, and I cherished the time with my cousins during lunch.

On the trip home as our car bumped along the backroads of Wisconsin, I buried myself in a book. Ironically, I was reading about how Greek philosophers compared death to the journey home, an image that resonates with my soul.

When dusk fell and the words became blurry, I closed my book and gazed at the pink clouds wisping across the sky. I searched for words to sum up the day, but my wisdom falls far short of the great philosophers. I did decide what not to say. I'm not saying good-bye.

I'd rather whisper, "Welcome home, Grandma. Welcome home."

For we know that if the tent that is our earthly home is destroyed, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. 2 Corinthians 5:1 (ESV)