Helpless or Haveless?

Few days ago, while I was sitting in my wheelchair, the backrest suddenly dropped. I did not know what had happened or why it had failed. My parents were immediately alarmed. My father began taking apart the back portion of the wheelchair while my mother helped him. They transferred me onto the bed, and I lay there watching them work.

There was nothing physically that I could do.

I could only observe them examining the wheelchair, discussing what might have gone wrong, and attempting to repair it. As the work continued, their frustration grew. At times, their voices became louder. I could hear the tension in their conversation and sense the anxiety and exhaustion behind their words.

The longer the repair took, the more uneasy I became. I began searching on my phone for a company that might be able to repair my wheelchair. At the same time, many thoughts entered my mind.

It had been almost three months since I arrived in South Korea. During that short period, I had already faced difficulties with a pressure sore, conflict within my extended family, and the exhaustion of moving twice before finally settling into our new apartment. My parents were already tired from carrying the physical and emotional burdens of relocation.

And now, Lord, my wheelchair too?

The word that most accurately described my feeling in that moment was helplessness. I could do nothing to repair the chair. I could not take hold of the tools, examine the bolts, or physically assist my parents. I could only lie on the bed, watch them struggle, listen to their conversation, and sense their growing frustration.

Yet perhaps helplessness is not merely the inability to act. It also arises when we can see only what is immediately before us: the pain, the frustration, the tension, the exhaustion, and the uncertainty. When these visible realities become the whole of our vision, we begin to believe that nothing else is happening. We observe the suffering around us, absorb the emotions of those who are struggling, and conclude that we are trapped inside a problem with no meaningful way forward.

In that sense, helplessness is not only physical incapacity. It is also the condition of seeing only what is visible.

But faith sees differently.

Faith does not deny the broken wheelchair, my parents’ frustration, or my own limitations. It does not pretend that the situation is easy or that the problem has already been solved. Rather, faith perceives another reality that is no less real simply because it is unseen. Faith sees the invisible God who is present in the room, still working, still sustaining, still giving wisdom, and still loving us in the midst of confusion.

As I lay on the bed, I began to pray.

“Lord, please give them wisdom. Please help us understand what is wrong. Give them strength, patience, and clarity. Please help us repair this wheelchair.”

I prayed repeatedly as they continued working. For a brief moment, it appeared that they had fixed the problem, but the backrest dropped again. The problem remained. Even so, they continued to believe that the wheelchair might still be repaired.

As I lay there, another question came to mind: Was I truly helpless?

I had initially understood helplessness as the inability to control the situation or solve the problem with my own hands. By that definition, I was helpless. I could not repair the wheelchair myself. I could not remove the burden from my parents. I could not guarantee that the problem would be resolved.

But prayer reminded me that human inability is not the same as absolute helplessness.

I prayed to the one who is my helper. I brought before God the one action that remained available to me. I asked him to give my parents wisdom, endurance, and strength. I entrusted the uncertain outcome to his care.

The wheelchair had not yet been fully repaired. I still did not know whether the problem would be solved that night or whether we would need professional assistance. The external circumstances remained largely unchanged.

Yet something within me changed.

I no longer felt entirely helpless.

Faith did not give me immediate control over the situation. I still could not repair the wheelchair with my own hands, and I still could not determine the outcome. In that sense, faith did not remove helplessness but took root within it. It became a strength that resisted the despair helplessness could produce.

Helplessness said, “I can see only the pain, the tension, and the problem.”

Faith said, “I also see the God who is present, even when he cannot be seen.”

Helplessness interpreted the moment only through human limitation.

Faith interpreted the same moment through the presence, power, wisdom, and love of God.

This distinction became increasingly clear to me. Helplessness is the inability to control or resolve a situation. Hopelessness is the conclusion that no help, meaning, or future remains. Faith does not always remove helplessness, because a person of faith may still be genuinely unable to change the circumstances. But faith resists hopelessness because it recognizes that human inability does not mean divine absence.

Therefore, faith is not the opposite of weakness in the sense that it makes us self-sufficient. It does not teach us that we are capable of everything. It teaches us that our incapacity does not have the final word. Faith turns our weakness toward the one who remains strong.

Prayer did not immediately repair the wheelchair, but it redirected my heart from my limitations to God’s faithfulness. It reminded me that my participation in a crisis is not measured only by what I can physically accomplish. Sometimes the most faithful action available to us is to pray, to remain present, to encourage those who are helping us, and to entrust what we cannot control to God.

Perhaps true helplessness is not simply the absence of physical power. True helplessness would be to believe that there is no one to whom we can turn, no God who sees, no God who acts, and no love sustaining us in the darkness.

But I have a helper.

Therefore, even while I remained on the bed, even while my parents continued to work, and even while the outcome remained uncertain, I was not without strength or hope. My strength did not come from my ability to solve the problem. It came from the presence of the God to whom I continued to pray.

I was unable to repair the wheelchair with my hands, but I was not abandoned, powerless, or alone. Faith allowed me to see beyond what was visible and to trust the invisible God who was present, still working, and still loving us.

In this way, faith does not erase helplessness. It enters helplessness and transforms it into dependence, prayer, endurance, and hope.