Nosebleeds

 

My nose has been bleeding a lot lately. 

The weather changes and the dry air have combined to make daily nosebleeds a reality. 

It’s okay. 

It doesn’t freak me out. 

I’m a lifelong nose bleeder. 

My mom and my sister are too. 

When it starts, 

I just get tissue, apply pressure to the nose, and wait for it to stop. 

No big deal. 

Unless you’re leading worship and all eyes are on you. 

Then it might be a big deal. 

 

Such was my fear this past Sunday morning. 

I wasn’t sure how I was going to handle it if my nose started bleeding in the middle of the service. 

And to make matters worse,

I knew that my sermon was going to be evaluated by my peers in my preaching class

So I was even more worried that something would go wrong.

 

Thankfully, my fears did not come true

During the service. 

But you know what happened on my way home? 

Yep. 

My nose bled. 

 

I think what worried me the most was knowing that I was being filmed.

A nosebleed at home is not filmed.

A nosebleed in my classroom is not filmed.

A nosebleed in my car is not filmed.

But a nosebleed in the middle of a service that is live-streamed every week is filmed.

It is broadcast for the world to see from now until who knows when.

People were watching live. 

People will watch again on a delay. 

To see a regular service is one thing. 

To see a nosebleed is another. 

It freaks some people out! 

And I didn’t want to be the person who freaked people out. 

I didn’t want to be the person known for creating an awkward pause of worry in worship. 

 

Like I said, 

My fears didn’t come true during Sunday’s service 

And I am grateful. 

But my worry put me in touch with my pride. 

Yes, my pride was mixed with humility and the genuine desire not to disrupt worship. 

But my pride made me concerned about how I’d look

And I didn’t want to look stupid. 

Especially on film,

Especially when being critiqued. 

 

I know. 

This is normal. 

And I’m not beating myself. 

I’m just confessing my humanity in a way that I hope will connect with yours. 

 

Because, friends, we are all human. 

We all have fears. 

We all have hopes. 

We all want to be liked and appreciated. 

We all want to look like we have it together. 

We all struggle with pride and 

Many of us have nosebleeds that we don’t want filmed for the world to see. 

 

Yes, we are all human. 

So let’s treat each other as such. 

Especially now when it is so easy to hate. 

Especially now when not only the weather is cold 

But also attitudes and hearts. 

 

Amen. 

On Death and Dying

I had a rough night last night. Out of nowhere, thoughts of death and dying descended upon my mind and heart and I couldn’t shake them.

It’s not so much that I’m worried about my own death and dying—other than not wanting to die alone and not wanting to leave behind a mess of stuff for unknown loved ones to sort through.

It’s that I worry about the death and dying of those I love. I think about the holes that will be left behind. I fear the silence. I worry about the gut punches that will land every time a memory appears. I think about going through stuff. I think about holidays. I think about traditions. And I am overwhelmed by sadness.

I don’t know when these thoughts began to appear and sit on my chest like bricks. It may have been when I did my unit of chaplaincy and death and dying became so very real to me. It may have been long before.

Regardless, on nights like last night, when the bricks are piled high, I’m thankful that I can look up and see the image of Jesus carrying a man who is exhausted, worn out, and left with nothing to give. I’m thankful to know that Jesus is holding me, letting me cry, hearing my fears, and reminding me to breathe.

Help us all to breathe today, God. Literally and figuratively. And for those taking their final breaths in these days, surround them with your light and love and be peace that passes understanding. Amen.

Courageous Truth

Once upon a time, there was a girl. The girl had a loving family who took very good care of her.
When the girl began Kindergarten, she was nervous like most Kindergarteners. She cried when she had to leave her mother, uncertain of being separated from her mom’s love. Other kids cried, too—no big deal—until one day of crying led to a week led to a month led to many more months of deep struggle in school.

There were many opinions as to what to do about the little girl’s anxiety. Most opinions centered around the notion that the girl’s loving family was being too protective. Cut the strings. Walk away. She’ll stop crying eventually. She has to grow up sometime.

One night as the little girl was taking a bath and her mom was talking to her about places where it is and is not appropriate for people to touch, the little girl casually mentioned, “No one has touched me there this year.”

This year.

But someone had touched her the previous year. A peer. A young boy. Not in her family. But someone nonetheless. And it had scared her. It had made her feel vulnerable and insecure. And it made her not certain who outside her family she could trust. It had made her feel unsafe. And it made her not want to go to school.

Thankfully, this story has a happy ending. Once the little girl told the story of what had happened to her, and once her family got her into counseling to help her work through the issues tied to the incident, she stopped crying every day when it came time to go to school. She stopped clinging to her mom’s hand and began to have the courage to walk to class alone. She began to smile more and she began to talk.

She had told the truth. And the truth had set her free.

I recently had a deep theological conversation with a friend. As we moved from one hot topic to the next, we landed on the topic of coming out. For most, the phrase “coming out” is almost exclusively tied to the process of identifying as gay/lesbian/transgendered; but for others, the phrase “coming out” has come to be associated with a process that occurs many times over the course of one’s life. The friend that I was talking to in this conversation—a woman who had been called into ministry—had had to come out of the women in ministry closet. Another friend has had to come out of the atheist closet. Another friend has had to come out of the not-called-to-be-what-her-parents-wanted-her-to-be closet. Another friend has had to come out of a political closet. Other friends have come out of other closets. And in every instance, the process has been similar: recognition of thought or feeling, exploration, questioning, doubt, struggle, fear of rejection, declaration, and acceptance (though not always in this particular order and not at all linear in sequence). [Do you know what’s interesting about this? These are also the stages of faith development.]

If I may be so bold, then I am going to suggest, dear friends, that each of us has a closet from which we need to escape. Some of us may have a whole house of them. Like the girl who began this post, your closet could be a closet of abuse and that abuse is big and real and scary and paralyzing. Or maybe your closet is financial ruin or medical insecurity or theological doubt or political anger or helpless sadness or wanting to be seen or admission of imperfection or maybe even sexual orientation. Maybe you’ve just gone into your closet or maybe you’ve been hiding your whole life. I don’t know. But what I do know is this:

When we have the courage to speak our truth in love, and when we have the courage to hear others’ truth in love, then the truth will set us free.

I’m not talking about spewing moral absolutes and fighting ‘sin’ with right and wrong. I’m talking about courageously, honestly, openly, and vulnerably risking to share parts our story—our truths—with one another in common humanity. I’m talking about fighting fear, separation, and otherness with words and dialogue—however difficult and humbling they may be. I’m talking about discussing which zones are safe and doing something proactive when we realize that safety has been breached. I’m talking about bunkering down, getting into trust-fall position, and holding one another’s pain. Because this world shouldn’t be a closet. And kids shouldn’t fear going to school. And humanity should never be us against them...

Making A Difference

I’m one of those people who, when asked what she wants to do with her life, will answer, “Make a difference.” For years, this desire to make a difference is
what drove me. It was at the forefront of almost everything I did and it was my main reason for going to work each day.

Then I realized something. While technology has advanced and science has come to explain a lot of things, humanity, at its core, is pretty much the same as it’s always been—broken, unjust, divided, judgmental, hungry for power, thirsty for war, and very, very, well, human. And while one life can have a positive influence on other lives, that one life will most likely be forgotten within a couple of generations and that one life will most likely have changed nothing in the world. Let’s face it, in the scheme of humanity, very few people are remembered for making a profound, prophetic mark on history.

This realization sent me into a period of depression. I became somewhat hopeless. I lost my purpose and my way. I questioned everything I did and wondered what the point was if making a difference wasn’t actually possible. I wondered if making a difference was just a pipedream that people perpetuated to boost morale.

Friends: This is a very dark place to be.

Thankfully, in the years since that initial realization, I have learned to accept its truth but to also live with knowledge that making a difference is far more than a pipedream. Yes. I will likely be forgotten within decades of my death. Even if I’m able to erect a building or start a scholarship fund, or even if I’m able to write and publish a book, the bulk of my life’s work and impact will probably be forgotten. I know this now. And I’m okay with this now. Because I’ve realized that making a difference doesn’t mean changing the course of human-kind by rewriting its history. Making a difference means influencing the lives of human-beings.

Making a difference is finding a ride to Harnett Off-Broadway for the student who otherwise would not attend. Will this student still face many hardships as she grows up? Absolutely. But for that one night, she was safe and happy.

Making a difference is singing a song of hope and encouragement with your best friend at your dad’s retirement service. Will my dad still struggle as he learns to navigate the waters of retirement? Absolutely. But for that one moment, he was at rest and peace with God, and he knew that he truly was not—and would not ever be—alone.

Making a difference is inviting a friend to dinner, talking, and laughing together.
Making a difference is following the music with your niece as she learns to read.
Making a difference is hugging a kid each morning and telling him to have a good day.
Making a difference is helping someone up when she falls down.
Making a difference is singing a song with a shut-in and seeing her face light up when she actually remembers something in a day full of forgetting.
Making a difference is doing anything you can to add light and joy to the lives of those around you anytime you can because life is the sum of all of its moments and each of us only has one life to live and God is the God of the light and joy that are slowly, steadily, and patiently fighting to redeem a broken humanity, one life and soul at a time.