Secrets in Our Bodies

Secret: “Something that is kept or meant to be kept unknown or unseen by others.” — Oxford Dictionary

This week I’ve learned a thing or two about secrets our bodies hold over time. You learn about them via some significant revelation, from an autopsy, or an after-the-fact dig that unveils a long-held unknown. Here’s my story:

I remember my first body secret, I might have been 6-years old. It was a family visit to a church in Lagos where I had my first asthma attack. I remember things being very dusty and my mum’s panic and frantic efforts to create a cleaner environment for me to breathe in; which meant immediately leaving the church sanctuary. Sadly, my young mind would begin to associate church with asthma and it would take years to outgrow childhood asthma and want to sit in a religious establishment. A dusty one was always a no-no! I also think the rigors of military school training in northern Nigeria and peer pressure scared the asthma away; who knows. 😳

My second body secret came early in my professional career. I’d picked up some bagels and a hot drink one morning, and within an hour of consumption, began to feel an onslaught of piercing pain above my left eye. I was photosensitive and nauseated. My boss let me go home and for hours I prayed for God to allow me to survive and find out who poisoned those bagels. I would later learn it wasn’t the bagels, I was having my first migraine attack. I still stayed away from bagels for years and when occasionally I’d have some, would still eat them suspiciously.🤣

Several MRIs and brain scans later, I learned it wasn’t stress or genetics, but possibly an allergic reaction to mono-sodium glutamate; the flavor enhancer found in my favorite of cuisines back then, Chinese Buffets!

My body also revealed it didn’t care much for the tight enclosures what were MRI machines at the time (with a slight case of claustrophobia, I almost destroyed two of them!)

I won’t soon forget the many years I walked around with self-injections waiting for the migraine to attack and for my quick response to cut the “hell” I was experiencing from hours to minutes.

Much later into adulthood, during a routine physical, the doctor would pronounce that my bad cholesterol was high. This one surprised me. After the migraine reveal, I’d been careful to avoid more than just bagels and MSG. I thought I was a health-conscious consumer. She asked a series of questions to assess my habits and then the big reveal question:

“Does anyone in your family have high cholesterol or high blood pressure?”

I knew the answer to that one since I’d been helping with my mum’s blood pressure medication resupply for a while.

I said “yes, my mum.”

She said “well there you go. You get it from her!”

I’d gotten a lot of things from mum; my looks, the natural arch in my eyebrows, the way my cheekbones rise when I smile, my cursive handwriting, my sweatiness, and my affinity for handkerchief stashes. These were all visible transfers. The invisibles were a surprise. For this particular body secret, I wasn’t put on meds at the time, just told to be mindful not to do anything to make it worse. I tried my best to oblige.

It was after that last revelation I started to make some preempting moves. I wrote in “We Broke Up” about my switch to a plant-based lifestyle 3+ years ago. The combination of these secrets, revealed over the years, led me to believe in reducing the impacts of more unknowns becoming known.

Then mum died.

Her body secrets took her suddenly. Well, they weren’t really secrets, we just thought they were managed secrets. I’ve been in mourning ever since but in a way that celebrates her life more than grieves her absence (sometimes they occur simultaneously).

Mum’s death came at yet another milestone in my life where medical society now asks men of color, especially, to check for another body secret reveal via The Colonoscopy.

As a society, we were still reeling from what felt like the sudden death of actor Chadwick Boseman from colon cancer. So many men, for a change, were letting go of whatever crazy phobias they had about the exam and getting this test done.

I didn’t make it past the first screening as initial tests showed no signs I had anything going on. I didn’t celebrate, but tempered any exuberance with the thought that I’d simply perform the test again this year.

And that’s exactly what I did. Scheduled it. Prepped for it. Cleansed for it (that was an experience all by itself) and on test day, when asked if I wanted to be awake, politely exclaimed, “Nein!” in the best German accent I could muster.

On a Thursday at 2:57pm the nurse began to administer some anesthesia. At 3:03pm she woke me up to put my clothes back on. I must admit, that exchange felt dirty as she literally handed me back my pants, told me to put them on just as I sat up on the bed clutching them to my chest. Then she guided me to another area to finish off the rest of the nap while waiting for the doctor’s results.

“Wait! What just happened here?!”

“That’s it?!”

“Five freaking minutes for this significant reveal of body secrets?!!”

I didn’t understand any of it. I didn’t even know what to text anyone. Except to tell the person who dropped me off to come back around since what I thought would be an hour was already over! 😳😂

The German doctor then escorts me to his office. There are two envelops on his desk: one for me and one for my primary care physician.

“Congratulations! Your colon is very clean. I found nothing. No polyps even. In fact, here are the pictures [in 3-D color].“

I chuckled thinking about who I would send them to; I won’t!

It was great news actually. I didn’t think I’d be this pleased to not have a secret revealed. But I was…I stopped by McDonald’s on the way home to celebrate with a large order of fries…yes, they’re vegan!

I was still on a health buzz 3 days later when another body secret dropped: “Fake Indigestion!”

Came home from running errands and all of sudden felt this discomfort followed by that other genetic inheritance, profuse sweating! I couldn’t explain what was happening and neither could my family.

I couldn’t sit. I couldn’t stand. I couldn’t lay down. I drank water. I prayed. Like the bagel experience, I tried to blame the last thing I ate and whoever made it. I made a deal with my loved ones: If it didn’t subside, I’d go to the emergency room (ER). If it did, I’d continue the day in preparation for my workweek.

It subsided and I pressed on…in silence. Within 3.5 hours, I was in the ER; 12 hours later, the latest body secret was revealed to me. It wasn’t fake indigestion, it was a blocked coronary artery restricting the flow of blood to my heart. Quick thinking doctors found this secret and neutralized it before it caused fatal damage.

I immediately thought about my mum. She’d been my angel for those 3.5 hours, carrying me like a wounded soldier through the battlefield of “fake indigestion.” She knew what those secrets could do all too well. My sweet sweet mother and angel 😭😇.

As I recover from this latest reveal, I can’t help but be grateful for so much. I’m crying tears of joy as I write this with such clarity in my spirit.

I’m still here because, as my dad said, “God has no abandoned projects!”

I’m still here because all these secrets have further enshrined my purpose and value as a human, serving humanity, being humane, and working to make the world a better place one interaction at a time.

I’m still here because my family still needs me and I need them.

I’m still here because someone is going to read this and get curious about their own body secrets and GO GET CHECKED OUT!!

Just Feel Something!

As I’ve gotten older and maybe even wiser with experience, my sense of self-awareness and discernment have sharpened. I’ve always prayed to be able to see people the way God sees them but also to be a vessel for good; for grace; and for mercy.

I just watched the movie “Just Mercy” for the upteenth time and as always, I was angry in the beginning, just exhaustingly sad in the middle, and then I cry at the end. If you’ve seen it you know why. If you haven’t, go see it now!

I cry because of the depravity of human nature. I cry because people can sit comfortably in such depravity. I cry because any mention of such comfort or depravity triggers some; not to do something about the state of affairs, but simply to remove any semblance of feeling or empathy towards what is unjust or oppressive.

Why is there such great opposition against feeling; against empathy; against the opportunity to be treated fairly? Why do we fight so hard, to the point of lying to ourselves, just to be the Levite that crosses the street when the man was robbed and beaten in the story of the Good Samaritan?

Many will read this and say, “but I’m not like that.” Maybe not, but you tolerate those who are.

You might read this and say, look, “I’m the Good Samaritan and would have done the same.” In that case, where have you been? Please return from your leave of absence. We’ve missed you this past year.

A few will even go as far as to blame the individual for traveling on a bad road, in a bad neighborhood known for armed robbery. Probably the same ones who’d blame a rape victim for dressing seductively.

In every case, this lack of feeling for humanity; this blame game; this labeling, just points to a callousness that invokes so much sadness and exhaustion. I am tired.

A year ago, after the George Floyd killing and ensuing protests, I wrote a letter called “Dear White Friend” that received quite a few views (more than I was used to seeing for my written posts). I challenged my friend to see my pain, and my hurt, and then to do something. So much has happened since then…some have done as I implored. They’ve watched movies, read books, studied history, gotten uncomfortable, had deep conversations, and have become stronger allies. They’ve felt something. Sadly, some have also chosen the comfort of silence; of safety; of privilege (CAUTION: Triggering word). Basically, they may feel something, but it’s a private feeling that hasn’t cost them anything…that I know of.

I’ve felt a lot this past year. It’s cost me some associations. The litmus test between ideology and humanity has allowed me to see what sides some have chosen. I chose humanity…it is what I was created to be and serve. In feeling something, I have chosen to do right (humanity) and not be right (ideology).

If you’re feeling something after reading this, what’s next for you?

Self-Care for Shelf-Life Items

Today as I reflect on yet another extension of my own shelf-life, I couldn’t help but smile in amazement!

First of all. Growing up I actually believed Prince when he sang the song “1999.” So much that I thought the world would end that year! So here I am celebrating the 20th anniversary of when I thought the world would end. Thank you Lord!

Second, is the journey thus far. Coup d’états; malaria; asthma; a gas stove explosion to the face (yeah, this face); unsuccessful attack during combat convoy; surgery; unmet expectations; disappointing others; poor decisions; loved ones’ health challenges; etc. and through it all: Though I walked through the valley of the shadow of death, God, you were with me. Your rod and staff comforted me.

Third is the work to be done. I realized years ago and took on the mantra that I was “a beggar telling other beggars where to find bread.” My life’s purpose would be lived out with the words I spoke; the encouragement I gave, and the seeds of good news I planted.

Everyday I’ve woken up is the confirmation that God wants me to continue in that purpose.

Today is a reaffirmation of that mission. Lord I thank you for my voice; my purpose; the platform to share; and the harvest in which to till.

Thank you for grace and mercy; those unbelievable twins to which I am so indebted.

Most of all…thank you for the family you’ve assigned me to; the place to which I am to first reflect Your goodness.

Conversations Must be Greater than Comments

To refer to 2020 as a difficult, unprecedented, emotional upheaval would be an understatement. So much tragedy; it’s like every month, just when you think it couldn’t get worse, life delivers a whopping punch to the kidney. We double-over in proverbial pain, gasping for air, praying for the strength to endure.

This past week I sat in shock as I saw, again on television, an entire city rocked by a big explosion. You see, as a kid, I attended a Lebanese Primary School and had friends and administrators who were from Beirut. While I’d lost contact with many of them over the years, my heart was heavy wondering if they were okay. Considering all that has happened, I wondered what my response ought to be as a believer in “The Way.” I knew sitting in isolation, consumed by fear and anxiety wasn’t the right answer. So I found safe spaces to have conversations with friends, co-workers, supervisors, and mentors. I had to begin the healing process in order to better manage my own emotional trauma.

But how do you do that in a world that has seemingly gone mad. If you spend any time watching the news, you’ll easily see we’re in a space where people have drawn lines and are constantly picking sides. You’re either for masks or you’re not. You’re either for schools opening or you’re not. You think all lives should matter and not just black & brown lives. Everyone has an opinion and no where do you see much of the opinionated vitriol than within the comments section of tweets and posts across several social media platforms.

Honestly, just seeing the things some fellow Christians “like”, “comment on”, or “share”, there’s a part of me that silently wishes to have nothing more to do with them. This is what I say to myself: “If that’s how you really feel about that issue, then you must feel that way about me and my family since we are directly affected.”

But then I’m quickly reminded that to be a Christ-follower is to model my life after that of Jesus whose ministry on earth was filled with uncomfortable conversations He had with individuals and groups. The difference, though, was the relationship-restoring, hope-giving, and healing power of those interactions. And so, if we are to rise above the madness and be in this world and not of it, then we must get to a place where engaging in life changing conversations is greater than drawing a line in the sand with our comments. James was very clear in describing our words:

“…but no human being can tame the tongue. It is a restless evil, full of poison. With it we bless our Lord and Father, and with it we curse people who are made in the likeness of God. From the same mouth come blessing and cursing. My brothers (and sisters), these things ought not to be so.” James 3:8-10

So, where do we fall? Do our comments bless or curse the intended audience? Do our conversations lead to healing and restoration?

Like I typically do when faced with tough situations like this, I look for examples in the Bible with lessons I can draw from. In the Gospel according to John, Chapter 4, I found one example where rather than draw the line in the sand of judgement, Jesus chose life-altering conversation.

Jesus’ encounter with the Samaritan woman at the well, while a familiar story, is one of the strangest exchanges between the Messiah and another person I’ve studied. As the story goes, Jesus “has” to go through Samaria to get to Aenon (a town near Galilee) where his cousin John the Baptist has been ministering. He could have gone around Samaria (a longer route) considering the animosity (maybe even hatred) between Jews and Samaritans. This is where I found my first lesson. If Jesus was willing to go where “THOSE” people lived and engage with them, so should we. He broke cultural and religious norms to talk to a woman, with a different theology, from a different culture and ethnic background.

Why should we do the same? Because it is our mission as Christ followers to “Go into all the world and proclaim the gospel to the whole creation (Mark 16:15).” It doesn’t say go only to those places and to people that make us comfortable. I’m reminded of the story of Jonah; he was so adamant about not talking to a certain group of people that he was willing to die, rather than go to Nineveh. That didn’t go too well for him. He had his plans but God’s purpose prevailed.

The simple truth is this: We can’t make peace if we don’t first make conversation and we can’t heal if we don’t talk. But a lot of us don’t do that. Instead, we make comments. We hide behind the mouse click with likes and shares to avoid the uncomfortable conversation with that person who’s different. Maybe we’re hoping our clicks and shares will let them know where we stand and where we draw the line in the sand. Unfortunately, our approach doesn’t result in the same outcome Jesus had with this woman and her village.

Back to the story. She and Jesus are talking about water. It started out with Him being thirsty and now it’s about how thirsty, and unfulfilled, she really is. But when the conversation starts to get deep, she gets defensive and immediately turns it into a theological debate (John 4:20).

We too do this at times. We do a 180-degree turn from the point to deflect our own guilt or shame and come back with our own counterpoints. She wants to know where Jesus stands on a certain issue and Jesus does indeed respond to her, but they could have never gotten to this point if He wouldn’t have first sat down and had a conversation.

In recent months I’ve been in that situation; started having a conversation about persistent dehumanization and unconscious bias and the person fired back with statistics to discount my experience. Part of me said, “why do I even bother” but then I’m reminded of grace…unconditional love that I don’t deserve.

I had always understood that the reason the woman came to the well at the middle of the day was because she was of questionable morality and had been ostracized by her own community. But when Jesus addressed her deepest need, she dropped everything, ran back to the village, told them about a man who’d just “called her out” and THEY LISTENED and ran back out to the well with her. Tell me, how does someone of questionable moral character, have that much sway, that an entire town (or maybe the leaders of the town) would listen and follow her?

Consider this: She’d had five husbands and now a sixth live-in “friend”. In those days, men divorced women for the most trivial reasons. You think maybe she’d started to question why men rejected her so often and she was gun-shy about committing to her current “friend”. Maybe that doesn’t happen to anyone today (*sarcastic voice*).

Or maybe she was a widow that had to marry her brother-in-law, as was the custom of the day, and at this point 5 husbands/brothers had died and she wondered if she was just a bad omen.

Maybe that time of day was her time to cry out to God in pain (away from pitying eyes in the crowded mornings or evenings) and yet, Jesus saw through her pain and her thirst for fulfilment and spoke to her deepest need.

Another lesson I learned here was that we’ll never get to connect at the deepest levels if we don’t listen and engage those who are hurting; those who are oppressed; or those who are dehumanized. Worse yet, we’ll never get to point them to the Cross; to the one who offers living water that quenches all thirsts. Jesus gave her a taste of that living water, and before the returning disciples could put two sentences together, she dropped everything, ran back to the village and brought the rest of the town…TO MEET THE MESSIAH. The fact that what started out as a rest stop for water and food, turned into a two-day stay that saved an entire town should highlight the opportunities we let go by when we don’t engage in real conversations.

This story presents a challenge to us: On the one hand, we’re called to be in the world and not of the world as we face crisis after crisis. But we can’t get sucked into comments but rather look for ways to offer living water to a thirsty and crazy culture. Secondly, the world is hurting in so many ways and we who claim to have a relationship with God, through Jesus Christ, must be deliverers of the good news of the gospel; seed planters, hope bearers, and grace offerors. In essence, our conversations with people must be stronger than the comments we make.

Dear White Friend (Part II),

Thanks for your note and the follow-up phone call.

While my emotions were (and are) still raw, you acknowledged not realizing how deeply impacted I was by the events unfolding across the country. You were horrified by the video capturing George Floyd’s death and your voice choked as you described how you felt seeing the other officers casually stand-by. You admitted not really paying close attention in the past because, “well it didn’t seem to affect anyone I knew.”

You were apologetic at first but then as the peaceful protests seemed to be diluted by violence and looting, your empathy turned to anger over the crimes of opportunity. You became righteously indignant about the lack of law and order. Your voice got louder as you watched the violence unfold; bricks were thrown into buildings, vehicles set on fire, and businesses looted and destroyed.

I heard as you went from calling them peaceful protesters to naming them thugs. You said “what about the good cops risking their lives!” I wondered if you noticed the truck pull-up nearby to drop off bricks to catalyze the violence. You muttered something under your breath about why they just don’t destroy “their own neighborhoods like they usually do?” You didn’t know I heard it. Almost like you realized what you’d said, you looked up to see the tears streaming down my face. You tried to apologize but realized you’d shoved the knife even deeper.

In your shame, you muttered: “I don’t know what to say; I feel like anything I say right now will just be wrong!”

LISTEN — EMPATHIZE — ACT SACRIFICIALLY

I realize I was right; this is going to be very uncomfortable for you. A good starting point would be to admit that discomfort and be prepared to squirm in it for a bit. However, maybe I can give you some other things to consider doing and not doing:

– Don’t say you don’t see race/color or that justice is color bind. It’s disingenuous and also makes me feel like you don’t see ME. You only see the parts of me that make you comfortable.

– Don’t explain away with data or “facts” (I also hurt when a black person dies under the hand of another)

– Don’t try to validate or feign allegiance with how many black friends you have. It feels like pandering.

– Do acknowledge that there are so many experiences, emotions, and opinions out there and we’re not a monolith.

– Don’t place the burden of explaining or justifying on me. Do some learning, reading on your own.

– Do examine history and be open to learning. Watch the “13th” documentary on Netflix for example.

– Do be willing to become as vulnerable as I am and willing to walk with me in this mess.

I know this is the beginning of many more real and raw conversations between us. Maybe we’ll talk about why people are moved to peacefully protest; why people are angry enough to riot; or why they’re desperate enough to loot.

We won’t fix this overnight…we didn’t get here overnight.

Talk to you soon.

Sincerely,

Still Your Black Friend

Thinking Out Loud Again

There are two distinct tones coming out of the church during these tough times (or great storm). One voice decries COVID-19 in plague-like terms as a call for sinners to repent because “their sins caused this” or as an ideological hoax and therefore denying its very existence.

The other voice seeks to be God’s hands and feet…providing to those in need, praying for healing, basically “being the church.”

There is a third, and not so distinct voice; the do-nothings. Just stay below radar…pray for those you care about and watch silently until “the doors of the Ark reopen.”

As I watch all this unfold in public (TV mostly), I wonder how the Western church will evolve over the next 30, 60, 180 days or even a year from now. I wonder how important buildings will be? Will success be measured in terms of those “saved” or those “served”? Or maybe both in a sense. Will emphasis remain on Sunday service experience or serving the community? Aiding the essential service-worker; giving teachers a break; buying groceries for the elderly; reading books in a virtual classroom?

Just thinking out loud. #bethechurch

Thank God for Doctors & Nurses

Today, for the first time in my life, I had surgery.

Yes, all those years of training, football (soccer to many of you), track and field, and mountain hikes in South West Asia, I’ve never gone under the knife. Well, today I did. Was I scared or nervous? No…more like anxious to get rid of this “thing” that had been growing like an alien species on my wrist for months.

However, all the appointments to discuss the risks of anesthesia (in its many forms); the advice from friends (about what kind of anesthesia to go for); and, just the reality of a part of my body being cut open only helped to increase my anxiety. Then came the doctors and nurses, at separate points before I was rolled into the operating room. They each explained what was going to happen, how it was going to happen, and how long it would take. They were so reassuring!

About 30 times today I was asked to verify my name and date of birth. Part of me started to think they were planning a surprise party afterwards and wanted to be sure. It never happened. They also kept asking what I was allergic to; this is when I decided to add the word “stupid” to my list of allergies. Yes, I’m allergic to stupid. Unfortunately, the nurses didn’t have a wrist band for that allergy; but they all laughed in agreement.

I was promised a drip “cocktail” that would sedate me while I was in surgery. Whatever that cocktail was, they need to put some ice cubes in it and pass me a glass, because I don’t remember squat! One minute, I was repeating my name and birthday for the umpteenth time, and the next minute, a nurse was explaining the bandages and stint on my left forearm. I slept through the whole thing!

I’m in recovery now…at home, and will need weeks of physical therapy. Nevertheless, the fact that I’m blogging this with one hand and not curled up in a fetal position in bed is a testament to God’s goodness; the professionalism and expertise of the doctors; and the care those nurses provided.

#TGBTG

For Mum…Our Song

Sweet Mother
by Prince Nico Mbarga
[click link to hear the song]

Sweet mother I no go forget you
For de suffer wey you suffer for me yeah [2x]

When i dey cry my mother go carry me
She go say my pikin wetin you dey cry yeah yeah
Stop stop! stop stop!! stop stop!!!
Make you no cry again oo

When i wan sleep my mother go pet me
She go lie me well-well for bed
She go cover me cloth say make you sleep
Sleep sleep my pikin oooo

When i dey hungry my mother go run up and down
She dey find me somthing wey i go chop
Sweet mother eeeeee..sweet mother oooo..eee

When i dey sick my mother go cry cry cry
She go say instead wey i go die make she die
She go beg God, God help me, God help me, my pikin oo

If i no sleep, my mother no go sleep
If i no chop, my mother no go chop
She no dey tire ooo
Sweet mother i no go forget dey suffer wey you suffer for me yeah yeah
Sweet mother eeeeeeeeeeee
Sweet mother oooo….eeeee

interlude…instrumental…

You fit get another wife
you fit get another husband
but you fit get another mother? No!

interlude…instrumental…

Sweet mother aaaaaaaaaaaaa
Sweet mother eeee..ooooooo
Sweet mother aaaaaaaaaaaaa
Sweet mother eeee..ooooooo