I am seeing an ostomy nurse who specializes in caring for patients with both acute and chronic wounds.

Interestingly, aspects of our physical experience often reflect our spiritual journeys. Wounds and pain can be complex. They have layers, varying smells, and degrees of infection and discharge. While we may try to cover up our sores with a Band-Aid or apply ointment, if they continue to get infected, they will never heal completely and form scars. This raises the question: how do we confront the people, situations, and traumas that have hurt us to the extent that we need an ostomy nurse?

Everyone I know carries pain—a story, a wound, a past. We often attempt to take matters into our own hands, trying to fix the sources of our suffering. We harbor secret desires to punish our adversaries or those who treat us with disrespect, contempt, isolation, jealousy, or hatred. We wish for our Father to expose their wrongdoing while covering our own.

During challenging times, we often find ourselves facing storms so powerful that the dust stings our eyes, shattering our peace. In these moments of difficulty, we may cry out, “Abba, look at what they are doing to me! Listen to what they are saying about me! See how they have treated me in this relationship, this family, or at work. And after all I have done for them!”

We tend to keep track of others’ wrongs while justifying our own rights.

We want a God in those moments who looks a tad different than the God we want when we realize we have used our words to tarnish others. In our weakest moments, we want a compassionate Father who overlooks our flaws—those times when we have used our words to hurt others or treated them selfishly instead of with a servant’s heart. We seek forgiveness when we steal our brother’s birthright or hide our father’s idols for our own benefit. However, when we are wounded, we want a warrior to stand up and fight for us.

My first night home from the hospital was challenging. I was swollen and in pain, with a bag attached to me that reminded me of an old vacuum cleaner bag connected to a circular tube. My stomach looked bruised, and this foreign object swinging from my abdomen frightened me. I wasn’t accustomed to this contraption that made noises and felt heavy against my thigh. I felt overwhelmed by the boxes that had come home with me—filled with gloves, odor drops, disinfectants, wipes for my Velcro tab, and sweeper bags. A million thoughts raced through my mind, mostly wondering if I would ever feel human again or reclaim a vibrant sense of self.

I am not second-guessing the surgery itself or the fact that the surgeon found scar tissue where my colon and intestines had fused together due to a procedure in 2004. I recall referring to myself as “the woman with the issue of blood.” Endometrial ablation is a procedure that surgically destroys the lining of the uterus using various methods, such as extreme cold, heated fluids, microwave energy, or high-energy radio frequencies.

No amount of juicing, fasting, or cutting out sugars and carbs could have undone the complications the surgeon encountered. But let’s return to the themes of wounds and adversaries.

After spending four nights in the hospital and one night at home with my new colostomy bag, I woke up one morning feeling certain that the bag needed to come off. This feeling didn’t make logical sense, but I was sure the Holy Spirit wanted my husband to help me remove the bag and examine my stoma. As we uncovered it, we noticed that it was separating and had a significant gaping area, possibly due to the vomiting I experienced the day after surgery.

We took pictures and sent them to the doctor’s office, which contacted a home health care nurse. She came to patch and change the bag and scheduled an appointment for me to see the ostomy nurse. However, by that evening, my stoma wasn’t functioning, and my stomach was as red and swollen as a watermelon. It looked like they might need to rush me back to the operating room.

Meanwhile, my husband and I were dealing with painful issues involving our loved ones. A sense of separation seemed to be happening in more ways than one, and the wounds we felt were deeply painful. No amount of patching could resolve the underlying issues. What was occurring in the physical realm mirrored what was happening in the spiritual realm. The waste wasn’t being expelled to facilitate healing, as there was a lack of communication.

When we arrived at the emergency room, it was a bustling Saturday—an environment we least wanted to be in. This ER is located in an area of town plagued by drugs, crime, and poverty. Nevertheless, this hospital is known for having some of the best doctors in the world and is renowned for performing the first fully self-contained artificial heart transplant and the first successful hand transplantation.

We waited for over an hour, and my pain was unbearable. I cried, prayed, and looked around the room at many who seemed to be in need of freedom from addiction, demons, and agony. Finally, I approached the lady at the front desk and asked how many patients were in front of me. She replied that there were five ahead of me, then said she would check with the supervisor.

Suddenly, a lady comes out and says, “Mrs. Manning, we are not sure how this happened, but our system shows that you are already in a bed in the ER. Obviously, that isn’t you, but since you’re already in our system and have just had surgery, I’m going to get you a room. Hold still.” Praise Abba! He hears; He sees.

We sit back down, and another lady comes out to draw my blood. She looks at my husband and says, “I’ll bring her right back.” I tell her I want my husband to come with me. She exhales roughly and replies, “There’s no reason for that, ma’am. You’re just getting blood drawn, and I’ll bring you back out in five minutes, tops.”

I look at her again and silently communicate that I’m familiar with the routine—this isn’t my first rodeo. She seems quite annoyed now. I plead and explain that hospitals trigger my PTSD, and she finally says, “Okay, come on, but this is ridiculous. He’s just going to walk back out here in a second.” I can feel her lack of compassion, and it makes my heart hurt.

Both my arms are bruised from the IVs used before and after surgery. It seems my left arm has become hard as a rock, so they switched to my right arm. The phlebotomist eventually finds a spot on my right wrist. She places the tourniquet on tightly, and I grimace with an “ouch!” She then jabs the needle into my vein roughly.

I look down, and the whole area blows up like a balloon, turning greenish-purple. It doesn’t really hurt, though, as the pain from my wound has overwhelmed any other pain in my body, making it minimal.

I secretly wonder if she has done this on purpose, but I can’t be sure. I ask for a Kleenex as more tears begin to flow. She harshly responds, “We don’t have any back here.” Suddenly, a woman just a couple of feet away picks up a whole box and hands it to my husband, saying, “She can have the whole box.” The phlebotomist ignores this, continuing to label vials and rummage through supplies. Then she stands up and mentions something about getting us back out to the waiting room.

I look at my husband, who is glancing between my arm, a box of tissues, and then back at Nurse Cullen from Twilight. He has a way of telling people off without them realizing it until much later. I can sense that he is gearing up to confront this lady. I say, “Don’t do it, Chief. It’s not worth it.” He looks at me and then back at her. I reply, ” Just let it go.”

I see the wheels turning in his mind, and just as his lips part to say something, a male RN at the desk across from the blood station interrupts the tension by saying, “I will take them now.” He quickly glances at the photo of my stoma on my husband’s phone. As he examines my stomach, I notice the phlebotomist looking over, catching a glimpse of my colostomy bag and wondering what the picture my husband is showing the RN might depict. Had she overheard him mention that I might need surgery?

Next thing I know, I find myself in a bed in the hallway of the ER. Doctors and nurses rush by, and suddenly the nurse who drew my blood swoops in, saying, “Oh, I’m so glad they got you a bed.” Upon closer inspection, I realize she is much older than I am, and she looks uncomfortable. I glance at her quizzically, wondering, “who are you?” Why this sudden act of kindness?

She looks at my husband and says, “Let me get you a chair.” She leaves and returns with a black office chair. I can’t tell if this gesture is genuine or if she’s worried we might file a complaint against her. She even offers to bring him water. Five minutes later, she comes back with a heated blanket, smiling exhaustively. I can see it now—the look that says, I was wrong about you. I thought you were a wimp who couldn’t handle getting poked without your husband by your side.

Through her actions, she silently communicates her apologies, and my husband notices it too.

We’ve all heard this Torah verse quoted in a gathering or an old western movie, but what does it really look like in practice?

“Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord; I will repay.” – Deuteronomy 32:35

“Never repay evil for evil to anyone. Respect what is right in the sight of all men. If possible, so far as it depends on you, be at peace with all men. Never take your own revenge, beloved, but leave room for the wrath of God; for it is written, ‘VENGEANCE IS MINE, I WILL REPAY,’ says the Lord.” – Romans 12:17-19

Many times we feel the urge to retaliate. My husband had the opportunity to make that nurse feel small; he could have called her out, reported her, or even expressed his frustration. But would that have achieved the same result? Would she have then brought him a chair in the ER or offered a warm blanket? Doubtful. If we could just step back and allow God to handle the situation, He would take care of it in His own way. His way would likely have a more significant impact than anything we could do ourselves.

1 Peter 3:9 says, “Do not repay evil with evil or insult with insult, but with blessing, because to this you were called so that you may inherit a blessing.”

Some people are so wounded that it doesn’t matter what we do or say; they will take offense. Often, they simply don’t know us well enough and misinterpret our words, actions, and even our intentions. Like that nurse who didn’t realize that I had undergone more than 100 vials of blood drawn in one sitting. I’m not afraid of needles; I just wanted my husband by my side. I pleaded for him to be there with me, and thankfully, he was—both my earthly husband and my heavenly one. What occurs in the physical reflects what happens in the spiritual.

Don’t let others treat you like a doormat, but also exercise discretion in allowing God to step in and take care of things. He will fight for you and is working in the background, even if you can’t see it or aren’t aware of it. Trust me, He sees you! He also noticed that nurse and had compassion for her.

Being a nurse or a servant can be a challenging job, and sometimes we can react more harshly than necessary because we haven’t taken the time to refill our empty vessels. We all have been in the position of Nurse Cullen at some point, unintentionally hurting others and overlooking the resources around us. Hopefully, we can demonstrate the grace and humility to offer a chair, a drink of water, or a warm blanket of love to those who come seeking comfort, even when we, ourselves, feel as empty as the foolish virgins’ lamps.

Blessings,

Tekoa Manning

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