Patti Asaad, in our opinion, is a pillar among women’s ministers of the ICOC. For
years, despite living with a debilitating chronic illness and all the usual challenges that
come with leadership in any large group of human beings, she has been faithful and
enduring for many years as a senior women’s minister in the American churches, most
recently in Texas. She has always been the embodiment of Southern grace — the kind
of woman who turns heads, but not just with the effortless poise of a true Southern
belle, but with the disciple-of-Jesus-brand of Proverbs 31-type wise instruction ready on
her tongue. She may bring the charm of magnolia blossoms and sweet tea to every
room she enters but God has also given her a sharp-as-steel wit and intellect. Over the
years she has grown a backbone of courage and faith in her Lord that would surely
inspire anyone who hears her story.

Now retired from full-time ministry, Patti has finally made time to hone and share
her exceptional gift for writing. We are proud and privileged to repost some of her work
here with her permission. It seems appropriate for us to begin with a piece that features
Jennifer Lambert, a trailblazer and another pillar among the early waves of women’s
ministers out of Boston from the beginning of our movement. Jennifer’s story of courage
and faith is both empowering and uplifting. May the love and strength of our Lord fortify
us all as we read and share these sisters’ stories.

 Originally posted on Patty Asaad's blog.

 

Tips To Stop The Cart Crash

My nose alerted me that Charlotte needed a diaper change. Then she threw herself on the floor instead of holding my hand, and as I looked down, I noticed we both had breakfast stuck to our clothes.

It was Sunday morning, and I had rushed into the church lobby, not wanting to be late. Then someone dared to shout, “She’s keeping you young!”

My response in those moments depends on my mood. If I'm feeling happy and Christ-like—which is rare on those mornings—I might say, “Yes, she’s so much fun. We’re grateful for her.” But most days, I fantasize about throwing the diaper bag at that person and shouting, “Seriously? Have you looked at me? I’m aging in dog years!”

Words meant in kindness can sting

That moment reminded me how often words meant in kindness can sting when life is already tough. No one sets out to make rude comments, but sometimes, that's the outcome when we rush our words or ignore the moment. 

In my 20s, I was the one who told a grieving friend, “At least you know she’s not in kitty hell,” after her cat passed away. We can be like rogue shopping carts crashing into others when we don’t pause to consider our words.

My challenges have made me reflect on how to help others when they’re hurting. I want to be the kind of friend who truly brings comfort. 

Waiting and listening are much more effective

Recently, I joined an online discussion where a woman shared her heartbreak over caring for her disabled daughter and her husband with dementia, only to lose her husband. It reminded me how easy it is to make mistakes because some comments were kind, but others were filled with platitudes and unsolicited advice. It was clear they hadn’t lived through what she was facing.

When I rush to say the first encouraging thought that pops into my head, it usually doesn't help. Waiting and listening are much more effective.

Sometimes, it’s best to say nothing

When I was diagnosed with cancer, people sent me verses about courage and told me I’d be okay. While kind, that wasn't my need because my fears weren’t about me—I was concerned for Charlotte and her upcoming open-heart surgery. The word cancer is always scary, but I didn’t need assurances about my survival. My cancer was stage one and felt like a nuisance. I was processing my more profound fear: how to care for Charlotte if I wasn’t well. 

Sometimes, it's best to say nothing. Recently, a few friends said, “I have no words.” I appreciated that more than any advice. It was their way of acknowledging my pain without trying to fix it. In that space, God worked and comforted me.

God didn’t give us the ability to fix one another quickly

We put so much pressure on ourselves to say the "right" thing and fix the problem. Or we try to find the silver lining too rapidly and offer a solution that only makes the person feel unheard and misunderstood. God didn't give us the ability to fix one another quickly.

Insensitive comments only bother me when I’m already having a rough day. On most days, I’m just thankful someone noticed my situation. But when life gets tough, quick platitudes feel like a slap. They can be condescending and dismissive, pushing us to hurry through grief.

At least he’s going to help others

I’ll never forget sitting in a hospital room after a friend’s brother died. As the doctor discussed organ donation, someone in the group told his sister, “At least he’s going to help others! Just think about that.”  

Sentences that begin with “at least” should be left unsaid when someone is in pain. Even good truths can hurt when they’re delivered too soon. We need to allow each other to feel the grief and not rush through it with band-aid solutions. 

Most of us tried to be like Jesus that day, which kept us from shouting, "Shut up!" in unison. 

A few weeks ago, lupus had made it difficult for me to get off the couch, so I was stuck at home and feeling lonely. I decided to Google the side effects of some of my future treatments—a bad idea, given that I was already discouraged. 

Her comment made me feel like a wimp

A friend called shortly after, and when I shared my fears, she said, “That’s no big deal. You'll be fine.” While that might be true, her comment made me feel like a wimp. It brushed aside my concerns, which consisted of more than fear of the side effects. However, working through those emotions clarified what was bothering me. 

My struggle was more about the cumulative impact of my upcoming challenges. This realization dispelled some of my anxieties and brought peace. But it still took a couple of days.

That situation felt unpleasant, but I'd rather someone say something obnoxious like, "What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger,” than avoid me because they don't know what to say. I've been guilty of that one, too. I'm learning so much from what has and hasn't helped me. But most of all, I want to refrain from critical thoughts and be gracious and grateful to anyone who tries to comfort me. 

Empathy goes both ways

In my last post, I wrote about how God understands our struggles. "As a father has compassion on his children, so the Lord has compassion on those who fear him... he remembers that we are but dust" (Psalm 103:13-14 NIV). We can also apply that to one another, remembering that we’re all dust, fragile, and flawed. Empathy goes both ways.

Life’s recent trials have made me stop and think. I hope I’ve learned how to park my shopping cart and keep it from crashing into others.