On a Pickle Jar: An Allegory

“Nnnngh!  Errgh!”  

Mia relaxed her grip on the dill pickle jar, panting.  Why did the canning process have to make food nearly inaccessible?  She sighed and flipped long brown hair out of her eyes and back over her shoulder.  As she began again to fruitlessly twist at the lid of the jar, her husband Henry came into the kitchen.  Spying her efforts, he aborted his walk toward the coffeemaker.  

“Hey, hon--you shoulda asked me t’ help.”  He stretched out his hands toward the jar, but Mia pulled it back.  

“I’ve got this,” she insisted with a polite but pointed glance.

“Um, alright,” Henry said doubtfully, dropping his hands and watching his wife renew her attack on the lid.  “But you know that brand’s always a bit too tight for you.  I could get it off in a couple seconds.”

“Maybe.”

After several more seconds of Mia grunting and Henry watching, he stepped aside to rummage in a drawer.  A moment later, he produced a round rubber jar opener and held it out.  

Mia relaxed her death grip on the metal lid, exhaled an annoyed breath of air, and considered the tool for a moment.  “Thanks, but I’ll get this soon.”  

“Come on--your hands have gotta be sore.  Use it.  It could help.”

She didn’t respond, but gritted her teeth and tried again to wrest the lid from its jar.  Henry sighed and set the jar opener on the blue laminate countertop.  When next she took a breather, she grimaced and swiped the rubber tool.  She tried again with the padded, grippy layer now between her hand and its quarry.  Unfortunately, it didn’t seem to make much of a difference.  It was as though some genius had used superglue on the lid.

“How about you let me…”

“No.  There’s something else I can try first.”

As Mia fetched a butter knife from the silverware drawer one-handed, Henry said, “I get that you want to be independent, but there’s nothing wrong with asking for help when you need it.  It doesn’t mean you’re incapable or incompetent.”

“Look, thanks, but I’m fine.”  Without looking at her husband, she set the jar on the counter and held the knife by the blade and whacked the heavy handle onto the lid, a few centimeters apart all the way around.  Henry shook his head and poured himself some coffee, trying to ignore the banging.  Then he leaned his backside against the countertop to wait and see if Mia would need to borrow his muscles.  She twisted her arm and hunched almost in half in her efforts to loosen the lid.  

Henry bit his lips so he wouldn’t laugh.  When she paused, he cleared his throat.  

“Why don’t you let me try before you starve, huh?”

“I wouldn’t starve,” Mia said, rolling her eyes.  “I could eat something else.”

“Yeah, but you love pickles.  Come on--give it here.”

“Ahhhhhh,” she exhaled.  “Fine.”  She thrust the jar out at Henry.  He set his coffee mug behind him on the counter and took the recalcitrant jar.  With a relatively minimal amount of effort, he twisted, and a sucking pop heralded his success.

“Great, I got it!” Mia said, immediately taking the jar back and cheerfully exchanging the lid for the fork the she had laid out on the counter.  

“You mean I got it,” Henry corrected her.  

“Pff.  It’s not like you did much when I was having trouble.  I did the work to loosen it.  I’d’ve gotten it, myself, in a minute.”

“You don’t know that.  Come on, how about a ‘thank you’?”

Mia fluttered her eyes at Henry.  “Thanks, dearie.”  Then she ignored him and speared a pickle.

Henry sighed.  “You’re welcome.”  He took the remainder of his coffee back to his office and left Mia to her crunchy, vinegary bliss.

Are you ever like Mia?  How often is God like Henry here--in “the wings,” waiting for us to ask Him for help?  Do we ignore Him, or discount His ability to help?  How often do we refuse to submit what we can’t handle to Him--and when He helps, how often do we claim the credit?  Consider this story the next time you feel overwhelmed and wonder why you haven’t yet been able to handle it yourself.