Beyond the Smiles (Part II)

(For Part I, click here.) 

I remember him laying there. The bare white mattress in the Emergency Ward. The blanket stained with sweat and dirt wrapped around his waist. His ribs protruding from his thin, malnourished frame.

I remember him turning onto his side, obviously in pain. I remember his mother standing at the bedside, anxiety and fear written clearly across her face.

A group of American healthcare workers, part of a medical mission team I was working with, flocked around him and hooked up an ancient ECG machine to confirm a diagnosis of pericarditis—a diagnosis for which nothing more could be done in this rural Cambodian hospital. 

As they gathered around the bed adjusting ECG leads and talking among themselves, I stood in the back. Listening, observing, and praying.

I took in a deep breath, and I let it out. This young man was dying. There was nothing we could do about it. With all our knowledge, with all our experience, with all our compassion and good intentions, there was nothing we could do to prevent this man’s suffering and death. 

There was a time when seeing a patient like this young man broke me. It led me on a journey of desperate brokenness and incredible healing. It led me to face truths concerning what I believed about God and myself. Ultimately, it led me to rest in knowing I don’t have to be enough.

This time, as I stood near the patient's bed, everything was different. Outwardly, I was surrounded by Americans, and I was grateful to be with so many whose education and experience exceeded mine. Things had shifted inwardly, too; I found I had courage to reach out to this patient in a way I was too timid to do before but was incredibly important.

When I close my eyes, I am back in the hot, humid, Cambodian Emergency Ward. I breathe in deep, and I choose to rest in this truth: I don’t have to be enough, for Christ is enough. When I stop worrying about how much I can’t do because I am not enough, I hear Jesus’ quiet invitation to sit in His presence, even in the midst of such deep suffering. And I accept. 

I sit in His presence and bring this young man to Him, praying he would know the peace of Jesus’ presence, too. I sit in His presence and bring myself and my broken heart to Him, finding space to grieve and freedom to be sad because when I’m with Jesus, the lie that “I have to be the strong one” crumbles. Jesus is the strong one. I never have to act like I have it all together—because I don’t. Jesus knows this. He's okay with this.

The Americans clear out, and it’s just my dad and me left. With the help of our friend and translator, Dad explains why the American team is there, to teach and work with the local doctors. The patient’s mother looks up tearfully and asks if her son will live.

All our knowledge, all our diagnostic powers, all our education and good intentions—it means nothing in this moment. We have nothing to offer this woman and her son. Nothing except Jesus. So we ask if we can pray, and I reach out my hand to touch this patient’s dirt-smeared blanket and lift him up to Jesus.

And I know in all our heartbreak, in all their heartbreak, Jesus is enough, and He is with us. 

His presence is so strong. It always is, if we'll just acknowledge it. If we'll just accept His invitation and stop our striving to be everything, fix everything, and know everything. Perhaps this is the most important thing I’ve learned about poverty in the past few years. Poverty and suffering highlight our sense of helplessness, and so often our response is to push this uncomfortable feeling down and ignore it or to grit our teeth and take it upon ourselves to eliminate disparities. Yet I’ve found no freedom there. 

No, freedom is found in Jesus' presence, in trust. It's found in trusting God is enough, trusting He cares and is big enough for all the hurts in the world and my grief over poverty and suffering and death, and trusting God is, indeed, good.

He is good. Even when everything around us seems to be wrong and impossible and heart-wrenching and clouded with evil. He is, indeed, good, and He is enough.

Sometimes...the Bed Breaks

It was several years ago on a typical hot Cambodian day when the conversation happened. I was helping lead an Awe Star Ministries team of students, and it was "promotion day," which basically meant our team's Country Coordinators (aka commanders-in-chief) were stepping down and select students were being promoted to leadership positions for the day. Jesse, one of our two trusty Country Coordinators, announced the promotions to the team and then told them:

"Today I'm just an ordinary student. Don't treat me like your Country Coordinator! Treat me like a student, talk to me like a student, do everything like I'm a student because today, I am one."

Then our 6 foot plus leader proceeded to climb into the back seat of our van, which was quite a humble move considering the leg space and limited reach of the a/c. My sister, one of the team members that year, ended up sitting beside him. She took into consideration what he'd announced and decided to capitalize on it. She had a confession, and since he was a student that day he couldn't get angry!

 "You wanna know something?" she asked.

"Yeah!" Jesse replied.

"Remember you're a student today..." she reminded him. Then she whispered, "We broke our hotel bed." 

"WHAT?!?" came the incredulous first response before he caught himself, followed by a much softer, "I mean, what??"

My sister proceeded to explain how the bed had broken for no apparent reason. Later, Jesse fixed it, and the problem simply ended up being a dislodged supportive slat under the bed. However, the bed was overall unstable, and any time there was too much weight on it or the weight wasn't distributed evenly, the bed "broke."

Later the same week, we had a team meeting in my sister's room, and she had to tell people one by one as they came in that they couldn't sit on her sleeping space because "Sometimes...the bed breaks." 

We all laughed and said, "Oh, Cambodia..." too many times to count. The whole scenario was ridiculous and hilarious, and it led to a catchphrase my sister and I still use today:

"Sometimes...the bed breaks." 

We use it when situations unexpectedly happen that are out of our control, just like the first time her bed broke. We use it when bad, hard, worst-case or most-awkward-case scenarios occur. 

Sometimes, these things happen. They affect us and those around us. They're out of our control. Often they make a direct and disruptive impact on an unavoidable, everyday part of our lives, like our beds or our families or our hearts.

Sometimes...the bed breaks. 

Today, I find comfort in remembering this, remembering it's a part of life that's uncomfortable, even terrible, but normal. Some days it happens in the mental or emotional realm. Some days our happiness gives way without explanation, letting us crash down into depression or grief. Some days anxiety shows up and we duke it out, and sometimes anxiety wins.

Some days it happens in the spiritual realm. Doubts about our calling, our purpose, or our faith plague us. Spiritually dry seasons come and last much longer than we think we can endure.

Some days it happens in the physical realm. We get sick, we're involved in a vehicle accident, we catch the punishment for someone else's crime, or we're simply physically exhausted. In these times, the flight of stairs we climb every day seems a little bit longer and steeper. The alarm clock seems to ring hours earlier than it used to. We're worn out.

Sometimes it happens in a combination of these realms. Some days, the rack we hang our clothes and hopes and dreams on snaps, and everything ends up soiled on the ground, t-shirts and self esteem included.

True story. Photo taken after clothes were re-washed.

Yet everyone faces these things, these unexpected, unwelcome events or seasons, the broken hearts or shattered dreams or lost relationships. They're a present albeit unwanted part of life, just like power lines in a picture.

In these seasons, I often forget the days exist when everything seems a little bit brighter. The days colors seem to pop more, when the view we see every day on our way home stops us in our tracks because we notice again how breathtaking it is. The sips of cold water and the company of friends and laughter over lunch fill our hearts up till they're overflowing. 

Some days, the small is enough to make the whole world seem wrong, and some days, the small is enough to make it all seem right. Everything comes in seasons, and perhaps the light from the bright times is meant not only for a single day but to last into the dark times, too.

I love these words by author and blogger Sarita Hartz in a wonderful post about suffering:

I cannot escape the beauty that often comes from suffering, any more than I can escape the laws of physics. But I believe, healthy self care doesn’t mean the avoidance of suffering, it means that we have the reservoir of hope and joy to offer when it’s needed.

Sometimes...the bed breaks.

We can't change it or fix it or go back in time to prevent it. But there are two things we can do. First, on the days the bed is intact, we can rejoice and treasure our happiness and appreciate the beauty in life. We can value the good times and practice gratitude while it comes easily. Second, we can offer our presence to those around us, whether we are in a "broken bed" season or others are or we all are. Something beautiful is created when we sit with others through the storm, even if (maybe especially when!) it's on an old, broken bed in the middle of Cambodia.

For Nurses in Developing Countries

You know you're a nurse living in a developing country when...

1. Every time you see a body of water you think about Schistosomiasis or some other water-borne parasite.

2. You're sitting on the commode with diarrhea and as you think about your lack of water intake and proper diet during the day, you literally say out loud to yourself, "I'm losing so many electrolytes right now..."

3. You dutifully use hand sanitizer every time soap and water isn't available, but secretly you're thinking of all the diseases only soap and water can kill.

4. You notice how dilated everyone's veins are in the hot, humid climate you're in and wish you could teleport your renal patients here for the fifteen minutes prior to starting an IV on them.

5. You're constantly telling people to change their diet to include more iron because you have a strong suspicion they're anemic after quick visual assessments, such as noting pallor in their nail beds.

6. You text your friends unashamedly about your abnormal bowel function overseas.

7. You adjust your diet according to your current bowel ailments. (More tamarind allowed today I'm constipated. More rice and less fiber when I have diarrhea.)

8. You're constantly reminding people to wear their motorbike helmets because safety always comes first, no matter the heat or discomfort. (You've seen one too many head traumas from motorbike accidents.)

9. It bothers you to the nth degree when you see people smoking on hospital grounds (considering all wards have open windows and doors and smoke can go everywhere).

10 Your heart breaks a little every time you see malnourishment. Which is pretty much every day.

11. You struggle because you have an overwhelming instinct to fix everything and make everyone feel better, but you're simply unable to. You find hope in helping one person at a time entrusting them to a Higher Power.

12. You are assessing community health needs continually, as you learn more and more about the culture, health care, and superstitions/beliefs affecting health practices.

13. Your friend in your passport country still sends you a picture of her infected eye to ask if it's pinkeye. (You reply yes, it looks like it is.)

14. Your days of running around a hospital floor getting cups of ice water so your patient will take their pills - all the while wearing a jacket because the a/c is turned up so high - seem like a distant dream.

15. Though your tolerance for super-entitled patients drops a few notches, you still respond to all with compassion and empathy because you realize in developed or developing countries, people's needs are the same: physical needs for food, water, medications, and hygiene, but also emotional and mental and spiritual needs. They just manifest in a different way. No matter if they're upset in a private American hospital room or in tears in a hot, crowded Cambodian ward, they are scared, stressed, and in need of healing and a Healer. So we respond with compassion to all. Because that's what we do. Because we are nurses.

To nurses in developing countries:

May your learning experiences, encounters with the sick, and poops be solid but not too hard.

May your heart, food, and water be purified and well prepared.

May the days you have the runs be blessed with plentiful access to flush toilets, toilet paper, and empathy for  patients with E. coli.

May your searches for soap and water, Lysol, deeper meaning in life, and a paradigm for suffering be fruitful and rewarding.

Most of all, may your compassion, immune system, and faith only be strengthened by your time overseas.

The Half Truth Trap

I used to play "two truths and a lie" a lot. It was one of the most popular youth group icebreakers when I was a teenager. The goal was to tell the group two truths and one lie, but in such a way others couldn't guess which was the truth and which was the lie. It didn't take long to discover the fastest way to trick others was to slip a hint of truth into the lie (I know, this church youth group game taught me how to deceive people more effectively. Ironic.). Yet I think most of us know this principle about deception from other realms aside from the game: the most believable lies have a thread of truth in them. That's what makes them so believable. We learn this from experience, from weaving lies or from falling prey to them a few too many times. Slide some truth in with deception, and the lie just became much more convincing. And another game of "two truths" is won.

However, there's a much weightier issue with half truths than winning an icebreaker game.

A while back I came up against a mental block I just couldn't seem to get past. Logically, I knew this belief I held about myself was false, but for some reason I couldn't move past it. My heart wouldn't accept truth. In moments of quiet, accusations would start piling up in my head about why I wouldn't ever be able to embrace truth and move past this false belief. And unlike other instances where I could easily shoot down lies with logical facts, I had no defenses against these accusations.

When I was a child, I remember going to Target with my family. My mom would point to the big, red concrete balls outside the store and joke with us, "If you can pick up one of those balls, I'll give you $100!" (Or maybe it was $20, which is basically $100 when you're 9.) My siblings and I would always try, straining with every ounce of our tiny bodies to lift that concrete ball. I never could pick it up, no matter how hard I tried. And boy did I try!

That struggle to pick up a concrete ball is exactly what it felt like when I was trying to let go of my false belief and embrace truth. It felt like I was putting everything I had - all my mental energy and strength and effort - into the task, but it just wouldn't budge. No matter how hard I tried, it didn't lift or move or roll or shift. Not even a millimeter.

To get past this false belief - this felt like an impossible task.

I was worn out. Discouraged and frustrated, I alternated between feverishly scheming some new plan to convince my heart to believe the truth and feeling utterly defeated, sitting down with my back against the concrete ball and hanging my head low.

Shout out to my sister Christina & her friend Liz for the picture!

Eventually, someone had to help me break the belief down into two parts. Someone had to help me recognize the thread of truth mixed into the false belief I couldn't seem to let go of. The result was resounding freedom.

The little thread of truth - the half truth in a bag of lies - is the big, red concrete ball we cannot move. It's what makes the accusations in our heads impossible to deny. Yet when we dissect our false beliefs and identify the thread of truth in them, we gain freedom. We are able to treat the thread of truth as truth (as the big concrete sphere we can't possibly move) and the rest of the bag of lies as lies (which are much easier to stop believing when we can separate them from the half truths tripping our brains up). 

Half truths come in many forms, such as:

I am not lovable because I am...

• imperfect
• not an outgoing person
• not a quiet person

Or, I am inadequate because I...

• am not good at public speaking
• have to ask for help frequently
• learn/read/talk/etc at a slower pace than the person next to me

Or, my circumstances are difficult because...

• everyone in my life hates me
• I have no natural gifts/talents
• God doesn't love me

The list goes on and on. But when we can separate truth from deception in these false beliefs, the lies lose their persuasive power. The truth may be that we are not outgoing people or are quiet, and it's certainly true we are imperfect. We may not be good at public speaking, and our circumstances may indeed be overwhelming. We cannot change those things, and that's okay. These truths do not mean the rest of the sentence is true; we are not unlovable or inadequate or defined by our circumstances.

When we recognize the slivers of truth as the big, red concrete balls we cannot move, we are free to stop trying to do the impossible and change the facts. We are free to step around the immovable, keeping the truth and letting go of the lies. We are free to move past the concrete balls of truth into the rest of life which, just like a great big retail store, has so many wonderful things to offer us.

Are there mental blocks you've faced that seemed impossible to move past?
How did you end up moving past them?
Are there half truths are you believing? About yourself, your circumstances?

Thanks for reading. I'd love to hear from you in the comments or an email!