#120. The Pickle Jar Principle
I was at a small birthday celebration this week for a friend turning seventy-nine. She had a ready answer when I asked her what she wanted for her birthday present: "An electric can opener."
This simple request launched one of the funniest conversations I've had in ages. Apparently, opening jars becomes a topic of increasing interest as we move through our third chapter. A lively exchange of wisdom followed.
"Run a knife under the edge."
"Tap the lid on the counter."
"Turn it upside down."
"Hit the flat of the lid—but not too hard."
One friend confessed that when a jar is particularly stubborn, she walks across the street to a little shop and asks someone there to open it. And they always oblige.
We laughed and laughed.
I was the target of particular hilarity because I recently sprained my wrist opening a pickle jar. In my defense, I was convinced I was just one determined twist away from victory. The pickle jar won.
As the laughter settled, I realized we weren't really talking about jars. We were talking about life.
There comes a moment with every stubborn problem when we have to decide: Do I keep wrestling with this thing? Or do I ask for help?
Many of us were raised to believe that self-sufficiency is a virtue bordering on sainthood. We solve our own problems. We carry our own burdens. We muscle through. Literally, when the situation demands.
Sometimes that works beautifully. And sometimes we end up with a metaphorical—or actual—injury. The truth is that wisdom is not knowing how to open every jar by yourself.
Wisdom is knowing when to try another method. Wisdom is knowing when to use a tool. Wisdom is knowing when to carry the jar across the street. Or even changing a recipe if that’s what it takes.
There is no medal for unnecessary struggle. There is no prize for proving that we can do everything alone.
In fact, one of the great gifts of aging may be learning that asking for help is not weakness. It is discernment. Sometimes resilience looks like persistence. Sometimes resilience looks like an electric can opener. And sometimes resilience looks like standing on a neighbor's doorstep, pickle jar in hand, and saying, "Would you mind?"
I suspect our third chapter is full of pickle jars.
Relationships that won't budge. Decisions that won't open. Bodies that ask us to use different tools than we once did. Challenges that require a little ingenuity and, occasionally, another pair of hands.
The question is not whether we'll encounter stubborn jars. The question is this: What are you wrestling with that might finally yield to a new approach—or a little help?
And are you brave enough to put down the jar before you hurt yourself? Apparently, I’m still learning this lesson!
