I was an architect major at Texas A&M University. This decision would fall on my “Top 5 Biggest Mistakes in Life” list. The motivation that led me to study building design was a character (Kirsten Cohen) off of a fictional television show (The OC) whose life I wanted to mimic exactly, minus her alcoholic tendencies. What I learned very quickly at age eighteen was that this was not a great aspiration for my life because 1. I am already prone to alcoholism based solely on my genetics and family history and 2. Jobs don't actually function the way they do when paid actors reading scripts are the employees.
Regardless, I stuck with it for 4 years to the shock of absolutely everyone in my life. The School of Architecture involves a lot of “Studio” classes, which is a fancy word for hell. During Studio, you slave away precious hours of your life that you will never get back constructing tiny replicas of buildings that you imagine to be majestic in your head, but turn out looking disproportional at best. Being the accident-prone human being that I am, hours and hours of cutting matte board with a tiny exacto knife while sleep deprived and hungry is a recipe for disaster.
One particular night in my studio around 2AM, I was working on an exceptionally tedious project with Caleb, Stuart, and Porter who were 3 of the only reasons I survived this season in my life. My cuts were becoming less and less "exact," if you will, as time drudged along. As I pressed down on the blade I made one long hard cut downward and almost immediately realized that I had made a monumental mistake. One of the best indications of a monumental mistake is blood. There was a lot of blood.
Apparently I had forgotten to move my left hand, which was holding the matte board in place, and sliced right through my index finger which was now hanging limply from it's original posture, and gushing blood. I marveled at how it was still intact whatsoever. This moment taught me that I either have A.) An exceptional pain tolerance level B.) Extreme delirium effects C.) Unbelievably delayed responses or D.) All of the above.
Before the pain even registered in my brain, Stuart and Caleb had frantically snapped into action. Porter was sitting next to me saying what I assume to be soothing words to comfort me. I didn’t hear a single one of them. Stuart had a paper towel death gripped around my (half) finger, barking out commands, and Caleb had run full speed to the "safety room" for emergency bandaging because apparently this wasn't the first time this had happened to an architecture student.
If you know me at all, you know that my stubbornness is one of the crowning characteristics that mark my life. After a few attempts to spray "blood clotting serum" onto my wound, I boldly and hastily decided that what I REALLY needed was sleep, not stitches. This was the second monumental mistake of my night. The boys pleaded with me to go to the emergency room to get my finger stitched up since I had "cut it in half" but I assured them that the beige Band-Aids currently holding it together were perfectly sufficient.
At 4AM that night, I went to sleep. Around 7AM I woke up in what appeared to be a deadly crime scene. Blood everywhere. I put a new Band-Aid around my finger, tried not to faint, threw my sheets away and turned on an episode of One Tree Hill while eating cereal in bed. I could feel my heartbeat in my finger but I figured that was pretty normal for an injury of this magnitude, so I took Tylenol. About 3PM I passed out from blood loss and my roommate had a panic attack. My roommate was very dramatic. Stuart picked me up and took me to the Urgent Care Facility around 4PM. They informed me that I had passed the 12-hour window for stitches and that instead, they would attempt to glue my finger back together. I agreed only because 1.) COOL and 2.) This seemed like a less painful remedy. Around 6PM a “doctor-in-training” (red flag) applied what I assume was skin superglue and sent me on my way. Stuart was not amused, and unconvinced. At 9AM the following morning I woke up to another crime scene, which pissed me right off mostly because I had just ruined a second set of sheets and sheets are expensive.
Upon my arrival back to the Urgent Care facility, familiar nurses welcomed me with open arms. I told them that I didn't think the skin superglue had worked and they agreed based on the evidence I presented them, and the unbelievable amount of pain that I was in. What happened next is the entire reason that I wrote this story.
In order for my wound to heal properly, the doctor could not just stitch it up (what, with all the blood clot serum and skin superglue and leftover pieces of matte board in there over a 48 hour period of time). Instead, I had to soak my sliced and throbbing finger in some kind of alcoholic liquid that burned like fire to sterilize it. Then, the doctor had to re-cut my wound so that it would have a chance at healing in a way that would make it fully functional again. He carefully and precisely took his blade and cut my finger deeply so as to expose the wounded area. Then I had to sterilize again. This process hurt infinitely worse than the original cut. After that, he carefully stitched my finger up, one stitch at a time. It was very methodical, very slow, very disgusting, and very painful. But, after weeks of having my finger in a stint, with 17 stitches, I am happy to report that it is fully functional, able to point in one direction and everything. To this day, I have no pain and no problems, and there is only a hint of the scar that remains.
The reason I tell you this is because I am fairly positive that this is exactly what is going on in my heart right now. Over the course of my life, I have developed monstrous trust issues based on wound after wound after heart breaking wound. In order to survive, I wrapped up my seared heart in bandages so tightly and just kept moving. I felt unbearable pain, but I toughed it out. I built walls surrounding the damage, so that I would never be hurt like that again. I placed brick after brick in the fortress that I was creating at a soul level, promising myself that I would never let anyone break me and hurt me like that ever again. I covered up all the blood with a Band-Aid, and tried not to faint. Over the years, my heart did heal, but buried deep below the surface were underlying problems and issues that were never exposed or addressed.
Until now. Until I prayed that God would heal my heart at last, so that I might finally be able to fully use it again, without pain. I requested heart surgery.
Over the course of the last few months, God – the all-knowing, loving surgeon – has been making precise, deep cuts into my fragile heart. It hurts like hell and it burns like fire as He methodically wounds me, so that I can fully heal. He is purifying my little heart so that it might be restored to its original function. He is destroying the fortress I built, removing one painful brick at a time as he lovingly bids me to trust Him in the process. My eyes fill with tears in fear and sometimes I wonder if I have made a mistake in requesting this painful procedure. His Word then becomes my morphine, my relief from the wreckage.
Thankfully, God also gave me strong women to hold my hand during the whole thing. My littlest sister, Brittney, metaphorically holds my hand every night, squeezing with the appropriate might as I wince and tears stream from my eyes. Bethany reminds me that the surgery is the only way to freedom because Bethany is a nurse and has more of an eternal perspective than any of us. Becca feels it with me, remembering the pain of her own surgeries and the value in sticking it out. She makes me feel less alone. Beef writes me letters, brings me gifts, encourages me, and makes me laugh because Beef is the best at being a friend in times of need. Camron jumps to action, trying to make me as comfortable as possible and reassures me constantly. I have the most phenomenal support team.
I do not think this surgery is over today, but at least today I am aware that I signed up for this. I remember asking for healing primarily because I wrote it down. The pain is overwhelming sometimes. The fear makes me feel like I am suffocating. The anxiety leaves me crippled often, but I want this. I want the end result. I want God to fix me, heal me, help me. He knows greater things than me. The reward in all of this is Jesus, and the intimacy of trusting Him with my literal life. And Jesus is always enough. Always sufficient. Always right. Always victorious.
So, God:
Whatever you must wound, cut, or create to display your Glory – do it. You alone are good.
