I struggled with whether or not to write this blog because vulnerability is always difficult, but I ultimately decided that the only thing holding me back was shame and I do not obey shame; I obey the Lord. So here goes!
Peru is one of the most beautiful countries I have ever visited. The mountains are incredible, the weather is always mild and breezy, the people are kind, and there are American fast food restaurants everywhere you look. This month had the potential of being the most comfortable month of the race so far, but I guess that was just wishful thinking.
This month is a special one for the men of our squad. The six of us are gathered together as a team in a month-long missionary extravaganza we like to call “manistry.” We live in a church building somewhere in the middle of Lima, Peru. Our building is set up into 5 floors with our living quarters on the fourth. We wake up each morning and begin a group bible study at 7:00am. Last week we studied Matthew chapter 1 and this week we’re doing chapter 2 (our host really likes to squeeze out everything he can before moving on to the next chapter I guess—even if it is a list of Old Testament names).
For our first week of ministry, we finished our bible study time, ate breakfast, washed the dishes, and headed downstairs to the church sanctuary to begin our projects for the day. Over the course of our time here we have given Iglesia Macedonia a little face lift by scraping paint, repairing walls, sanding them down, and slapping some more paint on them. As we were on our last day of painting, I grabbed my brush and got started working on painting around the baseboards.
About an hour into the morning, we had all found our rhythms and were moving along smoothly. That is until Andy’s extension ladder (pictured here ironically right above me) slipped and sent him tumbling to the ground (he refers to this as the time he fell out of the sky) as the ladder landed directly on my noggin.
I don’t remember much from the actual event, but the first thing I do recall is looking down at a pool of blood and wondering, “What the heck, whose blood is this?” Then I promptly noted that the blood was pouring from a pretty significant gash in my scalp. I guess adrenaline was pumping like crazy or God literally stalled the pain, but I couldn’t really feel anything at the time. Daniel was holding pressure on my laceration, and I looked over at Andy to see that Brad was assessing his level of consciousness. For the record, Andy did black out but only once he saw the blood pouring from my head (which for some reason I think is hilarious).
Anyway, long story short, Andy and I were transported to the hospital in some makeshift stretchers (that were more like quilted burritos) since both of our backs were in pain and they suspected spinal injuries. I got some IV morphine in my system, some local anesthetic in my scalp, and then came the stitches. I’ll save you all the gory details, but all-in-all I probably lost about 1-2 pints of blood that day and Jack got a nice little peek at my skull.
I got 13 stitches in all (7 internal and 6 external) and an impromptu haircut. My brain scan and x-rays came back normal, and Matt says that it’s a miracle that I have such a hard head (not sure if that’s a complement or not). Andy was mostly unscathed, too. His x-ray showed that a couple of his lumbar vertebrae got a little squished, but thankfully there was no severe damage to his spinal column. He says that he lost an inch, but hey it could have been worse; he could have lost a foot!
We paid our bills and made our way back to the church. A sweet little nurse who goes to our church came to check us out, and we each got a shot of pain medicine and an anti-inflammatory drug right in the ventrogluteal (Google it).
I wish I could say that my head healed up and I went back to ministry with a smile on my face, but that wouldn’t be completely truthful. My head did heal fine, and the pain did improve throughout the week. But I have found myself pretty far from “healthy.”
Even since right before the accident I have been having panic attacks every few days. These attacks are characterized by shortness of breath, heart palpitations, and a sense of impending doom. My chest gets tight and I feel like I’m drowning or that I’m simply underwater dying for a breath of air. They come on unexpectedly and last about 5 to 10 minutes usually, but they go away just as quickly as they begin. After I head-butted the ladder, the panic attacks continued to get worse until they have left me feeling defeated and out of control. My emotions have been wacko and I sometimes find it hard to focus. Praying, worshiping, journaling, and just sitting with Jesus have become increasingly difficult.
Like I said earlier, I was hesitant to write this blog because of the shame and weakness I feel when talking about these internal struggles. But I have learned that things like this, things like shame, only have power when they are left in the dark.
Ephesians 5:13-14 says,
“But when anything is exposed by the light, it becomes visible,
for anything that becomes visible is light.”
This morning as our sweet nurse friend came to check on Andy and me, she gave us big hugs and seemed so genuinely happy to be here helping us. She sat me down in a chair by the window, set up her sterile field, and went to town removing my stitches. As she gently cleaned my wound and snipped away at the sutures, I felt the gentle whisper of the Holy Spirit speaking to my soul for the first time in quite a while. It was a message I know well—a message I have heard time and time again since I set out on the World Race almost 9 months ago.
“Keep your eyes open,” I felt Him saying. “I want to teach you something.”
As she scrubbed and yanked, I realized how significant and symbolic this wound really was for me.
You see, in the midst of my depression or panic, I sometimes feel like I’m bleeding out, and at times my life seems utterly dark and hopeless.
Whether I have the clarity of mind to do it myself or not, pressure has to be applied to the wound in order to stop the bleeding.
But just stopping the flow of blood is not enough to bring lasting healing. I needed something more, something beyond what I could do for myself.
I needed stitches.
I needed internal stitches. Those are the ones that can’t be seen but are necessary to allow the wound to grow back together.
Like testimonies of the Lord’s goodness in my life and in lives around me.
Like perseverance and grit that have come from hardships and struggles.
Like steadfastness that has been cultivated from various trials (James 1:3).
Like eternal security and full knowledge of my identity as an adopted son of God.
Like memorized stories about biblical heroes such as Job and Paul who know much lower places than I’ve ever known.
Like the Word of God that has been memorized over the years and anchors the soul.
Like the Spirit of God who prays on my behalf when the groaning is too deep for words.
But I needed the external ones, too. Those are the ones that really seal up the wound and keep out infection.
Like brothers and sisters who stand in the gap to fight for Truth and to combat the lies of the enemy.
Like encouraging notes from loved ones and friends who challenge me to grow.
Like accountability partners who ask hard questions and celebrate even the smallest of victories.
Like a united global Church that is fighting for the common purpose of seeing their people come to Jesus.
Like a family of believers from Laurel, Mississippi to the countryside of India to Kigali, Rwanda to Chinameca, El Salvador to here in Lima, Peru interceding on my behalf.
Like a friend who will sit in silence and cry with me when the darkness seems like it’s just too much to bear.
These external stitches are only temporary. I know that too well. But that doesn’t make them unnecessary for the healing process at hand. These internal stitches, on the other hand, are here to stay. They will never be removed. The coolest part is that they don’t just sit idly in the wound; they eventual break down and are absorbed in my very body—becoming part of who I am.
Wounds are a normal part of being a human. You’ve got wounds, new and old alike I’m sure. I’ve got them, too, obviously. The problem with these wounds comes with how we seek healing. Sometimes we slap Hello Kitty bandaids on them, maybe rub in some ointment, and cross our fingers. Sometimes we add insult to injury by self-medicating with all sorts of substances and poisons. And sometimes still we ignore our wounds and cling to the old adage, “outta sight, outta mind.”
But if the wound is deep enough, no amount of Neosporin is going to heal it completely. If the wound is left open to the environment, bacteria will move in and wreak havoc. With physical wounds, a gash like mine is an open invitation to all sorts of germs to enter my body and spread to any and every part. With emotional and spiritual wounds, we are likewise vulnerable to attack from the enemy and all sorts of nasty things like depression and isolation. Before you know it you’ve got an infection like you wouldn’t believe and you’ll be asking yourself “How did I get here? What did I do wrong?”
Sometimes we need something more. Sometimes we need to be sewn back up. I don’t know exactly what that looks like for you. All I know is what I’ve experienced. I need a community around me to help me hold it together while the healing takes place. The edges of the wounds will eventually grow back together, and the pain will one day dull or disappear altogether. Until then, and even beyond, I am so thankful for my stitches.
There’s hope in the night.
There’s joy even in suffering.
There’s laughter through the tears.
There’s healing in the pain.
Listen to me, friend, if you’ve got a nasty gash (whether it was from last night or 20 years ago) I know a Physician with a steady hand and a gentle heart.
The stitches don’t hurt too bad, I promise.
