They’re Not Asking About The Dishes.

There was a moment today that caught me completely off guard.

I was talking with a friend about hosting a small luncheon for a small group of care partners. As we chatted about the menu before deciding on quiche, fruit, punch and flowers, the conversation turned to something much deeper.

Help.

Or more accurately...my reluctance to accept it.

I laughed as I admitted that even after last night's Art Walk, when everyone jumped in to help clean up, I still found myself doing what I've always done, saying, "I've got it."

Then came a gentle challenge. IYKYK me and a challenge! They said, “this may be outside your comfort zone, but the next time someone offers to help...let them." I know, but if I'm honest, I also know how unlikely that was.

Then came the words that stopped me in my tracks. They said, "When someone says, 'Can I take these dishes?' they're rarely asking about the dishes. They're asking if they can carry one small piece of your day for you."

This was another moment that my heart understood and the tears in my eyes confirmed it.

Not because I hadn't heard something similar before.

But because, after years of encouraging care partners to accept help, I suddenly realized how often I struggle to do the very thing I've encouraged others to practice.

I've spent years being the person saying, "How can I help?" to countless care partners, family members, and friends.

Now I'm discovering how hard it is to be the one answering. What struck me wasn't that accepting help would reduce my workload. It was something much deeper.

Accepting help is allowing someone else to express their love.

No one can make Doug well.

No one can take away the uncertainty I wake up with each morning.

No one can walk this part of the journey for me.

But they can wash a dish.

They can refill the punch.

They can sit with guests for a few minutes while I check on Doug.

Those small acts become their way of saying, "I see what you're carrying, and I'd like to carry a corner of it for a little while."

Every care partner understands dishes.

We all know what it's feels like to stand at the kitchen sink after everyone has gone home, looking at the evidence of another day.

That's why this metaphor hit me so hard. It isn't really about the plates. It's about permission. Permission to let love become practical.

Then another realization quietly settled in. I've encouraged care partners for years to identify one small thing they can begin accepting help with. Not because they desperately need the help today, but because someday they will.

I've often said, "Don't wait until you're in crisis to make important decisions."

I encourage families to establish routines before they're needed, to attend support groups before they're overwhelmed, to build community before isolation sets in.

Today I realized something I'd never connected before. Accepting help belongs on that list too.

Because accepting help isn't simply a decision. It's a skill. It's something we practice.

If we wait until we're physically exhausted, emotionally depleted, and desperately in need of support, we may discover we don't actually know how to receive it.

That realization was especially humbling for me.

Now is when I truly need help. Life has a way of gently holding up a mirror. Then another irony made me smile.

If my sister Patti came to my house after lunch, she wouldn't ask what needed to be done.

She would quietly walk into the kitchen, roll up her sleeves, and start washing dishes before I boot her out.

Not because she thinks I'm incapable. Simply because that's one of the ways she loves people.

And then I realized...

That's exactly what I do.

I've quietly washed dishes in other people's homes more times than I can count.

Not because I wanted recognition.

Not because I wanted to take over.

Because that's one of the ways I express love.

So if washing someone else's dishes is one of the ways I show my love...

What happens when I won't let someone wash mine?

Am I unknowingly turning away the very language of love I so freely offer to others?

As care partners, we often decline help because we don't want to inconvenience anyone. We tell ourselves it's easier if we just do it ourselves.

But maybe every time we say, "No, thank you," we're unintentionally closing the door on one of the few ways someone can love us.

For years I've encouraged care partners to embrace respite, support groups, community, and connection.

Now life is gently asking me,

"Debbi...do you believe that applies to you too?"

I think I finally have my answer.

So the next time someone asks if they can help...

Maybe let them.

If they offer to clear the plates, let them.

If they offer to refill the punch, hand them the pitcher.

If they offer to sit with your loved one while you take a short walk, say yes.

Not because you're weak.

Not because you can't.

But because love sometimes looks like ordinary things.

A dish towel.

A pitcher of punch.

Ten quiet minutes.

A small corner of your burden.

I'm still learning this.

Maybe you are too.