I stared in horror at The Rocky Mountain Collegian. An upperclassman had disagreed with my first weekly opinion column and had written a letter to the editor, calling me names in front of the entire news-reading population of Colorado State University.

I wanted to write a rebuttal. I wanted to defend myself. I wanted to explain to her and the rest of the readers that I was right.

As an amateur journalist, I called my editor and made my request. She gently explained that I couldn't write a response to every letter that picked at my opinions—after all, it was an open forum, and at a university with 25,000 students, people are bound to disagree.

So I just let it go. And I had to do it over and over again as I read more dissenting views to my columns. I eventually garnered the record for more letters to the editor than any opinion columnist in the paper's history.

I'm not in college anymore, but I have not graduated from wanting to defend myself. In the school of life, I still have to let things go. When friends, family members or co-workers point out weaknesses or misunderstandings, I want to prove my point. I want to show that I am right.

Yet in 1 Peter 5:5, we are commanded to clothe ourselves with humility toward one another. Peter said point-blank that God is opposed to the proud.

Pride demands to be heard and understood. Pride desires to be right. True humility requires a teachable attitude; rather than be defensive, I need to listen. When appropriate, I should quickly seek forgiveness for what I do wrong. And sometimes—though not always—humility removes my right to say, "You're wrong." I'm learning to ask God, "What do You want to show me through what this person is saying?"

Defensiveness comes naturally, but if we're willing, Christ empowers us with the supernatural response of humility.

I was looking at the pictures in Time magazine after Hurricane Katrina. Water surrounded houses. An apartment complex was flattened. A grown man fought back tears.

I tried not to cry.

All my life, I have tried not to cry. I like laughing and smiling. I enjoy jokes longer than most people, remembering them and smiling again later. I don't like dwelling on pain, and sometimes try to stuff it inside and not think about it.

But I had recently seen something new while reading the Book of John in the Bible. When Jesus learned of Lazarus' death, even though He knew He was about to raise Lazarus from the dead, Jesus stopped to cry. It's the shortest verse in the Bible: "Jesus wept" (John 11:35).

Even Jesus took time to mourn the pain in the world. It was good, even necessary, to grieve. God showed us.

So in a quiet moment, I flipped the page, looking at pictures of the devastation, pictures of victims I had never met. I saw nursing-home patients displaced to an airport. A frail old woman slept on a baggage-claim carousel.

And I cried.

Wandering the University of Northern Colorado campus with Jessica, I felt weakness in my legs. I knew the familiar feeling—a diabetic reaction—my blood sugar dipping below the normal range. Soon the weakness was joined by a racing heartbeat and muddled thoughts.

I needed help.

Too prideful and self-punishing because I'd forgotten to pack any quick sugar—like Skittles—I stayed silent. We kept walking, Jessica enjoying the surroundings and me conjuring up Plan B. An hour later, we ducked into a coffeehouse and I found first aid in a tall cup of sugar-laden coffee. I'm sure Jessica was clueless.

I now realize the stupidity of my choice not to tell her; how she would've been mortified to know how much I needed help but didn't ask.

Like my walk with Jessica, I easily fall prey to the lie that I shouldn't tell God about my needs. I simply hatch a plan for an approaching deadline at work or a medical bill I can't pay. Foolishly, I think I can live the Christian life in my own strength, without Christ's help and power.

Yet the Christian life is all about recognizing I cannot do it myself. God wants to hear me confess my needs. He created me to depend on Him for everything and wants me to express my dependence.

God offers grace, perfectly designed for my every need. It is released by the simple—but humbling—request: I need You. In reply He provides for my need in ways much sweeter than Skittles. It's an abundant life.