Last week I faced one of the most challenging developments in my career. It was exciting and scary all that once. And I was pretty much out of my mind with apprehension. As well as insecure, curious, happy, nervous, giddy, and sick to my stomach. Throw in being about 800 miles from home and you have quite the recipe for one freaked-out middle-aged goober.
Knowing how worried I was, Precious said this: “I’ll believe in you until you can believe in yourself.” And so he did. And then finally I did, too.
But not before I had a meltdown in Chicago’s Midway Airport, attracting a sympathetic gaze and grandfatherly pat from a chaplain. Think sweet (the priest) and pathetic (me) simultaneously.
Others assisted me along the way as well, maybe more than they know, although I have tried to tell them how much I appreciate their support, and their prayers, and their text messages. I love that at my age, 49, I can reach out and ask for what I need without worrying if people will consider me “needy.” I was needy last week, and so ask I did. I’m not sure I could have completed my assignment—or even gotten on the plane—with any sense of grace or aplomb if I hadn’t been sustained by such loving souls.