Built, Not Broken Reflections · No. 4

Learning to Receive

Adapted from Built, Not Broken, Episode 4 · By Timothy Ivy

Strength is not refusing every hand that reaches toward you. Sometimes strength is having the humility to receive what God is providing through someone else.

The first three reflections established the arc, if you will. Survival formed false beliefs in me. Those beliefs created adult patterns. God's truth began confronting those patterns and inviting me to trust, to receive, to rest, and to live differently.

Now I'd like to move from recognizing the pattern to practicing a new way of living. This one is about learning to let people in, and letting God care for us.

The central question is this: What does it look like when someone who learned to survive alone begins to receive love, rest, affirmation, and community?

That transition, from toughing things out alone to receiving, touches deep psychological and spiritual territory. Here's what I've seen unfold, both painfully and beautifully.

When someone has learned to survive alone, love can feel strange, or even more threatening than comforting at first. In my experience, affirmation feels undeserved or even unneeded. I don't need it. I don't need all that. Rest feels lazy. I learned to carry it alone because I learned I had to.

Last time, I talked about how experience taught me to control everything and avoid dependence. I got to a place where I had to say, "God, I cannot do this on my own. I need You. I need people. I need rest."

But saying that was one thing. Learning to actually receive it was another.

Before I go any further, I want to say something about why I share my life this openly.

This isn't about me. I'm not sharing my story so people will just look at my life. I'm sharing it because God invites us to tell the truth about His work in our lives, so other people can see His faithfulness, find hope, and be pointed to Him. Testimony is both witness and worship. It says, "This is what God has done."

I believe my story can give hurting people proof that they're not alone, and that God can meet them in places that feel confusing, painful, and hopeless. And honestly, sharing it strengthens me too. When I remember God's faithfulness, it builds my faith for what I'm facing now, and it reminds me that my life has purpose in His hands.

I'm not ashamed of my life. I don't have to present myself as someone who never struggled. I don't mind sharing the brokenness and the grace: what life was like, how God met me, and how He's still working. Listen, I've been built, and I am being built.

I haven't always loved people the way I should have, and I'm sorry for that. But being open in this season of my life is one expression of my love for you. Don't expect a performance from me. I'm not a performer. I'm just authentically me, scars, mistakes, and all.

If this helps somebody seek help, confess their own struggles, turn toward God, or see that they're not alone, then it's worth it to me. At the same time, this is a sacrifice for me. I'm giving up comfort, privacy, pride, control of image, and even the fear of being disliked or misunderstood, for a greater purpose.

I'm saying, "Lord, I value obedience and another person's hope more than I value looking like I've always had it together." What a waste that would be.

A Summer in Mississippi

As I continue sharing my story, I need to go back to one of my earliest memories of receiving care outside of my young mother's love.

When my parents split, I think I was four and getting ready to turn five, or somewhere right around there. As part of that transition, my mother agreed to let my father drive my sister and me from Michigan to Mississippi, where my paternal grandparents lived on acres and acres of farmland, with a lake, livestock, and all the space a child could imagine.

At my young age, it was scary at first. We were dropped off there in Mississippi. My grandmother kept us for the entire summer, and during that time, I experienced care, love, and safety. That became a real point of reference for me. When I think about receiving care, besides my mother, I go back to my grandmother in Mississippi.

I was scared, and she comforted me. I slept in the bed with her because it made me feel safe. And I remember that peace to this day, the peace of sleeping beside my grandmother. There was something about her care that let my little body rest.

She was set apart. I knew it then, even though I didn't have the language for it. She was a woman of God. And through her, God was giving me an early picture of Himself: comfort, presence, and love that didn't have to be earned.

People Who Made Room

Later, in my mid-teens, my maternal great-grandfather in Michigan was there too. He became someone I didn't mind asking for help. When I had left home early and my car broke down, he was someone I could call for a ride to work. He offered excellent advice.

He was the kind of person who would come sit with you in your space. He made time for me. From time to time, he would stop by my place just to sit with me. Even if I had friends over, they all knew him, because he showed up.

God also used other people in practical ways. My maternal grandmother, who was retired and done raising children, agreed to help babysit my daughter while I worked and my daughter's mother attended cosmetology school.

I had friends whose parents embraced me and treated me like family. For a young man who had learned not to expect people to make room for him, that meant more than I knew how to say at the time.

I spent Christmases and holidays with their families as if I belonged there, because in those moments, I did. I was included at the table. I was welcomed into their homes. I was never treated like an outsider, or somebody who had to earn his place. They gave me a picture of family that was different from my experience, different from survival. They showed me that people could care, make room, and love you simply because you were there.

Looking back now, I can see that God was placing people in my life who reminded me: You're not alone. You are worth caring for.

I've been blessed with friendships that went far beyond what I thought friendship could be. These weren't surface-level people who only showed up when life was easy. They were people who stayed close, showed up, and reminded me through their actions that I mattered to them. I am so forever grateful for the friendships I've had.

For someone who had learned to survive by expecting very little from people, those friendships were very powerful. I began to see that care could be steady. People could be sincere. God kept placing people in my life to challenge the lie that I was on my own. Through real friendship, He was showing me: You are worth showing up for.

Enough to Function, Not Enough to Heal

Listen, those people were gifts from God. But their presence didn't automatically undo what survival had taught me. It didn't automatically change the way I was formed.

What I see when I look back is that, because I was learning this so late in my development and formation, love and care had to be received repeatedly before my heart could believe it was safe to rest, and safe to be known.

Apparently I'm feeling quite safe now, letting the whole world see inside of me. Right?

Care showed up in my life, but it didn't always reach the part of me that had already decided I had to survive alone.

Here's where it gets complicated. Even when love and care were available, survival had trained part of me to stay guarded.

I could appreciate care, but still struggle to receive it.
I could be surrounded by good people and still feel alone.
I could accept a kind gesture, but not tell people how deeply I was struggling.
I could enjoy being included, but still keep part of myself at a distance.
I could be grateful for advice, but still feel uncomfortable needing it.

Even when people were sincere, part of me stayed prepared for disappointment. That's a big one.

Life had taught me, my past had taught me, the way I learned to cope had taught me to receive just enough to get through, but not enough to truly lean in.

I want to be clear about what that looked like. I could receive practical help. I could take the ride from my great-grandfather. But receiving practical help is not always the same thing as allowing yourself to be emotionally cared for.

I could accept what people did for me and still keep them from seeing what was really going on inside of me. I could be surrounded by love and still protect the parts of me that were exhausted, afraid, confused, and hurting.

I had learned how to survive without being fully known. I had learned how to show strength even when I needed comfort. I had learned how to say, "I'm good," when what I really meant was, "I do not know how to let you help me with this."

Listen, that's a lonely way to live. Because you can have good people around you and still feel alone when survival will only let you receive enough to function, but not enough to heal.

The iPod

I remember one moment in my mid-thirties that showed me just how hard it was for me to receive. It's kind of an embarrassing story, but here we go.

I had spent months working side by side with a friend, a new friend at the time, helping him with an extensive project. I did it because I wanted to. I wasn't looking to be paid. I wasn't looking for anything at all in return.

One day, he and his wife gave me a new iPod as a gift, a token of appreciation for the time and help I had given. And the truth is, I really wanted an iPod at that time.

But when they gave it to me, I didn't know how to receive it. Instead of just feeling thankful, I felt frustrated. I felt angry. I felt disappointed. I even felt betrayed. Crazy, right?

This is why I say my friends are gifts from God. It takes the right kind of people to love you through the strange reactions you may not even understand yourself.

I remember saying to him, "I didn't want to be paid for helping you." The truth is, they valued me enough to give me something they knew I would enjoy. But even in my mid-thirties, I still did not know how to receive that kind of care.

I knew how to work. I knew how to show up. I knew how to give. But being appreciated in a personal way made me uncomfortable. Somewhere inside, being valued didn't feel natural. Even that late in life, I hadn't fully learned how to simply receive.

My anger wasn't really about the iPod. It was revealing something deeper in me. I had been trained to be the one who carried, helped, provided, and figured things out. But I still didn't know what to do when someone appreciated me.

Used, or Cared For

That moment exposed a larger pattern in my life.

Outside of my childhood story, throughout my teens, twenties, and thirties, I became the person people relied on. Perhaps because of the strength and ability they perceived in me, I found myself surrounded by people who were willing to ride my coattails rather than truly walk alongside me.

That's why we have to pay attention to the patterns dysfunction formed in us. We really do. What looks like strength can sometimes draw people who are comfortable taking.

Healing means recognizing patterns of unhealthy reliance, people who take without contributing, supporting, or reciprocating, and learning the big difference between being used for what you can provide and being genuinely cared for.

I knew how to give. I knew how to help. I knew how to show up for other people. But receiving care was much, much harder for me.

And that's what God began changing in me. He was teaching me that receiving care wasn't losing control. It was learning trust.

The Bill Is Paid

I have another story, probably just as bad as the iPod story, but it helped me understand what I'm learning to surrender. For me, receiving a generous gift could feel so uncomfortable that I would instinctively try to turn it back into giving. And this one is recent.

One evening just a couple of months back, my mother, my grandchildren, and I went out for brick-oven pizza at a very nice Italian restaurant. As usual, we ordered generously, and by the end of the meal the bill was likely close to two hundred dollars.

We were seated beside a quiet couple who initially seemed closed off, the kind of people I naturally feel drawn to engage. Before long, we were talking as if we had known each other for years. We talked so long that my mother finally got up and headed to the car. Shortly after, the couple said goodbye.

I stayed behind, waiting for the check. When the waiter came by, I waved him over and told him I still needed to pay. He looked at me and said, "The couple you were talking to paid your family's bill. They asked me not to tell you."

I just stared at him. I didn't know what to do. I said, "What? Really?"

As I walked outside, grateful but bewildered, I saw the couple driving past. They waved, and I shouted as they passed, "Thank you!" They shouted back, "You're welcome!" as they kept going.

I got into the car and told my family what had happened. Then, immediately, I began searching for cash. I only had cards in my wallet. I asked everyone to check their purses and wallets so I could go back in and give the waiter a good tip. I love to give a generous tip whenever we eat out.

My mother stopped me. "Timmy, stop. They already paid the bill. You're so used to paying that you're trying to find a way to pay. The bill is paid. Now get in the car."

She was right. Receiving that gift felt unfamiliar. I was so accustomed to earning my place that I did not know how to simply accept care.

Now, this isn't ingratitude. No, it isn't. I'm talking about identifying learned, protective patterns.

I remember, as I drove away, I didn't agree with my mother. But what she said was powerful, because it names the shift. Healing is not only learning to stop over-giving to people who take. It's also learning that genuine love can be received without immediately paying it back or restoring the balance.

I'm still learning. But at least I've become aware. And day by day, little by little, I am made better and better.

A Soldier Who Needed Balance

I had always believed I could do it on my own. Reliance on other people never became a natural part of my story. I never wanted to feel dependent. I never wanted to be an undue burden. I never wanted to appear broken. I value strength, and honestly, I am strong. That's just the truth.

Listen, I'm not kidding. In my own mind and heart, I'm a soldier. And from my late twenties until now, I have truly believed that if I'm determined enough and Christ stands up in me, I can face whatever comes.

But, but, but. I had to let the Word of God bring balance to that strength.

Scripture doesn't teach us to be helpless, lazy, or dependent on people in an unhealthy way. But it also does not teach us to carry every burden alone. God gives strength, yes, but He also gives us the body of Christ. He tells us to receive wisdom, encouragement, correction, prayer, and care.

"Bear one another's burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ." (Galatians 6:2)

What does that tell us? It means God didn't design us to prove our strength by carrying every weight alone.

So I had to learn that receiving didn't mean I had failed. It didn't mean I was less of a soldier. It meant I was allowing God to use the people He placed around me. I said, they were people He placed around me.

Strength is not refusing every hand that reaches toward you. Sometimes strength is having the humility to receive what God is providing through someone else. Oh, please believe it.

Small Practices

So what did practical change look like? For me, learning to receive happened in small practices.

It looked like accepting a ride from my great-grandfather when my car was broken down. It looked like receiving advice instead of acting like I had to figure everything out alone.

Later, it looked like admitting my limits, just like I'm admitting them to you right now, and letting God care for me in ways I had spent years trying to avoid.

I just want to say to some of you right here: sometimes receiving is one of the strongest things a person can do. Because it means the fear or dysfunction that formed you no longer gets to make every decision. That's powerful.

Imperfect People

God didn't only heal me by removing pain. He also healed me by repeatedly placing imperfect people in my life, teaching me, slowly, not to run from the care He was offering through them.

Don't miss that part. I said He placed imperfect people in my life.

The people God used were not flawless, but their care was still meaningful and part of my healing. Somebody needs to pause and think about that. They didn't have to be perfect for God to use their love, their presence. And I love them, and I pray I've added to their lives as well.

When God began placing consistent people around me, something started to change. Little by little, the walls began to come down. I began to learn I didn't have to earn rest to be cared for. Correction became evidence to me that someone was willing to walk with me. Vulnerability became possible.

Community began restoring what isolation stole: safety, belonging, purpose, and the freedom to both receive and eventually become a source of love for someone else.

Not Only a Man Who Learned to Survive

I want to leave you with this. I am not only a man who learned to survive. I am a man God has taught to love, to lead, to show up, and to make room for other people.

The same places that once made me guarded have made me intentional about seeing people, especially the ones who feel overlooked, unseen, or like they don't belong. God has given me the privilege of encouraging and caring for people. He has given me real friendships, people I love, people who love me, and even grandchildren who bring so much joy to my life. Thank You, God.

I've learned to use my voice, my experience, my humor, my hospitality, and even my scars to help somebody else feel seen.

What survival tried to use to isolate me, God is using to help me connect. What tried to make me closed off, God is using to make me more compassionate. Amazing.

Receiving Isn't Giving Everyone Access

But let me be clear. Learning to receive doesn't mean trusting everybody. Some people aren't safe, and wisdom still matters.

Learning to receive is not giving everyone access to you. It's asking God to help you recognize the safe care He is providing, and giving Him permission to heal the part of you that wants to run from it. There was a part of me that wanted to run from it.

Trust began for me with trusting God enough to tell the truth. My heart's cry was, "God, I need Your help."

If receiving feels hard for you, don't condemn yourself. You may be learning something you were never taught. You do not have to force trust, tell everyone your story, or give unsafe people access to your life. Healing can begin with one honest prayer, one wise boundary, and one small step toward support.

Maybe God has already sent people who've made room for you, prayed for you, checked on you, corrected you with love, encouraged you, fed you, or stayed when they didn't have to.

The question may not only be, "Do I have anyone?"
The question may be, "Have I allowed care? Have I allowed love to reach me?"

Survival may have taught you to do life alone. But God never intended that for you.

Sit With This

Think about the people God has already placed around you. Who has made room for you, checked on you, or stayed when they didn't have to? Write their names down this week.
Where do you receive just enough to function, but not enough to heal? Is there a place where you say "I'm good" when what you really mean is "I don't know how to let you help me"?
When someone gives to you, do you rush to pay it back or restore the balance? Next time, try simply saying thank you and letting it be.
Then ask Him: God, help me recognize the safe care You are providing. Heal the part of me that wants to run from it.

Hear the full story: Built, Not Broken, Episode 4, "Learning to Receive," on Spotify or your favorite podcast app via Pod.link.
Previous reflection: No. 3, "When Truth Starts Changing Your Patterns"
Next reflection: No. 5, "Learning to Rest"

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