For most of my life, I was known as the guy who could handle it. Work headaches, family chaos, church drama, you name it, I’d tighten my bootstraps, grit my teeth, and push through. I wore it like a badge of honor, you would have thought that pulling myself up by my bootstraps was my spiritual gift.

I had a talent for survival and a high pain tolerance for dysfunction. It was like I was in a rodeo of life and just kept yelling, “Send in the next bull!”

But here’s the thing about constantly pulling yourself up by your bootstraps: eventually, they snap.

And mine did.

It was like death by a thousand stress-induced paper cuts that ended in multiple big dramatic crashes.  My marriage was straining. I was exhausted at work. Church felt more like a burden than a blessing. And instead of thriving, I was just barely holding the pieces together, duct taping my soul one late night at a time.

I hit a point where I realized something hard and humbling: I couldn’t do it on my own anymore.

That realization? It stung. Asking for help went against everything I’d trained myself to do. But I didn’t have another option. The life we had built was cracking, and I couldn’t patch it alone.

So we reached out.

We called family. We opened up to pastors. Most importantly, we dropped the performance and laid our mess before God and the world. We didn’t come to Him with polished prayers, we came tired, raw, and honest.

And you know what? That’s when healing started.

It wasn’t instant. It wasn’t flashy. But little by little, grace showed up. And the more we invited help in, human and divine, the more we started to grow. To breathe. To rebuild.

Today, by God’s grace, my wife and I are thriving! I in full-time ministry while still doing some Chef work, and my beautiful wife is killing it in her field where God has called her. We’ve got three beautiful, God-loving kids. And while we’re still human (and still occasionally a hot mess), we’re not alone anymore.

Are we problem-free? Not even close.

But we’ve learned something vital:

You can’t rescue someone from a burning house if you’re on fire, too.

And real hospitality? It’s not just offering help, it’s knowing when you need help, too.

So if you’re out there tugging on your bootstraps with smoke in your lungs and a smile on your face, friend, it’s time to ask for help.

Because the bravest thing you can do might not be pushing through, it might be admitting you can’t.

Let’s talk about something we don’t like to admit: sometimes, showing hospitality means waving the white flag and saying, “I’m in over my head, y’all.”

Now I know that doesn’t sound very glamorous. It’s not gonna land you on the cover of “Hospitality Weekly” (if that’s even a thing, and if it is, I want a subscription…..maybe I will make it!). But it might just be one of the most honest, spiritual, and practical forms of hospitality there is, knowing ones limits.

We tend to think of hospitality as giving. Serving. Hosting. Holding it together while you whip up a lasagna, vacuum the dog hair off the couch, and throw a smile over the chaos like a tablecloth over a mess. But here’s the truth bomb: if your own house is on fire, maybe don’t host the barbecue.

And that’s where we land in 1 Samuel 11. A chapter that seems like it’s about leadership and battle, but actually has a not-so-hidden message about hospitality and humility. Also, eyeballs.

Picture this: The story kicks off with the fine folks of Jabesh Gilead being visited by Nahash the Ammonite, a man whose idea of hospitality apparently involves siege warfare and threats to poke everyone’s right eye out. (Because nothing says, “Thanks for having me” like involuntary eye surgery.)

Faced with this charming ultimatum, the people of Jabesh don’t do what a lot of us do, they don’t pretend everything’s fine while stress-eating their 6^th box of Oreos. No. They own it. They say, “Hey, we’re not equipped for this. Somebody come help us.”

Boom. There it is. The most overlooked form of hospitality: they knew they were in to deep and asked for help.

They send messengers. Not to whine. Not to manipulate. Just to say, “We can’t handle this one alone.” And let’s be real, how many of us would rather gouge our own eye out than admit we need backup?

But true hospitality isn’t about being the hero. It’s about making space, for others to step in, for God to move, and for community to do what community does best: come together.

Enter Saul. This is his big “I just became king and now there’s an emergency” moment. And to his credit, he doesn’t panic. He doesn’t call a committee meeting or form a vision board. Instead, something better happens: the Spirit of God rushes in and lights a fire under him.

And Saul? He gets spicy. He takes a yoke of oxen, slices it up like brisket at a Baptist cookout, and sends the pieces out across Israel with a simple message: “Join me, or this happens to your cows.”

Motivational? Slightly terrifying? Effective? You bet.

What’s beautiful here is that Saul doesn’t try to lead in his own strength. He doesn’t say, “I got this.” He says, whether he realizes it or not, “God’s got this, but I need all y’all too.” It’s a Spirit-led, community-driven kind of leadership that shows us another side of hospitality: inviting others into the work.

He wasn’t trying to be a one-man army. He was building a movement. And movements don’t happen when we hoard the load. They happen when we admit we need help carrying it.

Let’s pause here and be real: you can’t offer comfort, support, or hospitality if you’re tapped out. You ever try to throw a dinner party while running on fumes and unresolved trauma? It’s less “blessing your guests” and more “crying in the walk-in cooler.” (Ask me how I know.)

Hospitality has to be sustainable. And sustainable hospitality means receiving as much as you give. It means asking for help when you’re sinking. It means saying, “Hey God, I need You to show up before I lose my sanctified mind,” and then letting people come alongside you, because that’s what they’re there for.

We’re not called to be martyrs of our own ministries. We’re called to be part of a body, a community. One where sometimes you make the meal, and sometimes you’re the one who sits at the table and lets someone else bring the casserole.

So Saul rallies the troops. The Israelites unite, ride out, and whoop the Ammonites with holy enthusiasm. But what happens next is key: the people want to make it all about Saul. “Long live the king!” and all that jazz. But Samuel, bless him, brings everyone back down to earth. He gathers them together and basically says, “Hey. Let’s remember who really saved the day.”

They renew their covenant with God. They reflect. They recommit. And in doing so, they do something beautiful: they show hospitality to God. Not by lighting a candle and putting out the good china, but by making space in their hearts, in their celebration, and in their future plans for him to lead.

Because hospitality isn’t just for people. It’s for God too. And that means inviting Him into our battles, our victories, and our everyday mess, not just when we’re desperate, but when we’re planning the next steps.

So What Does This Mean for Us?

Here’s the meat and potatoes:

You were never meant to do this alone.

Not your calling.

Not your ministry.

Not your family.

Not your Tuesday.

God didn’t design us to white-knuckle our way through hospitality or leadership or life in general. He designed us to need Him. And to need each other. To be honest about our limits. To raise our hands and say, “I need help,” without shame. And to remember that inviting help is a sacred act.

So if your spiritual pantry is empty, your emotional dishes are piling up, or your heart just feels like Jabesh under siege…. ask for help.

From a friend.

From your church family.

From God Himself! Honestly, This right here is step number one… or should be at least.

Because that kind of honesty?

That’s hospitality too.

And when the rescue comes, and it will, don’t forget to throw a party. Not just for the win, but for the God who carried you through it. And maybe even throw in a thank-you to the folks who showed up with backup when you needed it most.

We don’t always need more strength. Sometimes, we just need to stop pretending we don’t need help.

And that, my friends, is the kind of hospitality that changes everything.

Stay salty, my friends.

P.S If you need help reach out we are here for one another. I would rather hear your problems than see you succumb to them.