Right now I’m sitting on a bed at the La Quinta O’Hare, foot propped up on a puffy white pillow, a small trash bag filled with ice from the vending area draped over my swollen, sprained ankle.

It all started last night as I was (attempting to) catch my 10 p.m. flight home from a retreat with the fabulous Redbud Writer’s Guild. After navigating through security at O’Hare and hiking to my gate, I discovered that all the flights into Wisconsin had been cancelled due to thunderstorms.

Lovely.

I eyed the customer service line stretching down the terminal–apparently, it wasn’t just us Wisconsinites who were stranded for the night. I’m not sure that many people even LIVE in Wisconsin! I took my place at the end and called United to rebook my flight.

After half an hour, I had booked the next available flight, but still had no place to stay for the night. I contemplated calling Chicagoland acquaintances, then decided against it. I was a big girl–I’d stick out the line, get a hotel voucher, and spend the next day in solitude, catching up on some writing.

Four hours later, I could barely keep my eyes open. I scribbled my info on a pink voucher, said goodbye to the marathoners I had kept up a steady conversation with (they joked that they should just have started running to New Jersey), and headed toward the shuttle station. The crowds had thinned out, the shops and restaurants had closed, and the maintenance crews were beginning to clean up for the night.

It was the mop water that sent me tumbling sideways, my ankle twisting under as my heavy backpack pulled me further off-balance.

I sat on the damp floor, dazed with exhaustion and the rush of endorphins as my ankle went numb. Two businessmen loomed over me.

“Are you alright?” one asked.

“I’m not sure,” I replied, because I wasn’t. My head was spinning, and I couldn’t feel my ankle to determine how bad it was or wasn’t.

“You slipped on the wet floor,” the other said, glaring at the middle-aged immigrant holding the mop, as if the man was personally responsible for the cancelled flights, the missed Monday meetings, and the fact that floors do, in fact, need to be washed.

“Can we help you up?” the first man asked again.

“I just need a minute…”

“Let us help you up,” the other said, and two sets of hands came down and grasped my arms. I obediently let them pull me to my feet.

“There’s a bench over there if you want to sit down,” the first man said, and then they were gone, hurrying toward the shuttle station. I remember wondering vaguely if these men thought there was something ELSE wrong with me–if I was buzzed, or just not very smart.

One of the maintenance crew swooped in on me next, his dark face furrowed with concern.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m not sure,” I repeated, barely able to form the words, to get them past the fog in my brain. Suddenly I didn’t feel okay. My ankle was still numb, but I was a mess. “I think–I’m just so tired…”

“Where are you going?”

“The shuttle station.”

The man explained how to get there. I blinked at him, and he explained it again, apparently recognizing the dazed look in my eyes.

“Could you walk with me?” I asked weakly. Enough with “big girl” facade–I was exhausted, injured, and needed help. And not the kind of help that yanks you up by the arms and forces you into a false posture of strength, so the helper can move on with their agenda without feeling guilty. I needed the kind that stays with you until you get where you’re going, the kind that is there to steady you when you start to stumble, and recruit more help if the problem turns out to be beyond what you can deal with yourself.

The man walked me past security, then left me to limp to the shuttle station alone, where I waited with disgruntled passengers in the rain. I experienced a strange mixture of emotions, abandoned by the people who had seemed ready to help me, bewildered that none of my fellow travelers seemed to care about my plight, and a touch ashamed to be so needy in the first place.

I couldn’t help but wonder how often I have left people in the same position, spiritually or emotionally. Of course, like a good Samaritan, I would stop to help an exhausted woman who had taken a tumble and hurt her ankle, especially if it was after midnight and she was traveling alone in an unfamiliar area. But how often have I walked up to people who were emotionally or spiritually wounded, yanked them up (whether they were sure they were ready to stand on their own or not), brushed them off, and sent them limping off by themselves? Were they bewildered or hurt by my abandonment? Did they feel ashamed for needing help in the first place, perhaps even more so after having been vulnerable enough to ask for it? (If I have ever done this to you, I am so, so sorry!!!)

There are a lot of injured people limping around in our churches, our communities, and our world. Most of them seem capable of getting where they are going, of respectably powering through and making it to their destination on their own. But oh, what a difference it would make to have someone who would walk with them, helping them navigate frightening, unfamiliar territory, supporting them when they feel weak, and being there in case things get beyond what they can deal with themselves. Most of the time, there’s no need rush in like a hero and fix other people’s problems, but could we slow our pace enough to accommodate our brother’s limp, go a little bit out of our way so that our sister knows she has not been abandoned? Could we walk with them, so that no one has to go the journey alone?

(Disclaimer for my Mommy and worried friends–I wrote the last two paragraphs at Breakthrough Urban Ministries, after the lovely Arloa Sutter, walk-besider extraordinaire, rescued me. :-))