The Squeamish Martyr Wannabe

As we face so many severe challenges in the 21st century, likely most of us have contemplated the possibility of martyrdom.  Indeed, we know of Christians murdered in other parts of the world, but many have suffered in this country, too.   Some have been beaten while quietly praying, and even our government has imprisoned numerous pro lifers (though now pardoned).  At the very least threats of assault or death are reported daily.

 
I accept that possibility, and have generally believed myself ready for the worst.  However, God reminded me that not by my power but only His could I face either a white or red martyrdom.    

 
Everyone who knows me understands that I nearly faint at the sight of a blood trickle.  That I once considered nursing still astonishes me.  However, a while ago, when hurriedly cutting cheese, I badly nicked my forefinger.  I will spare the gruesome details, but as I rushed to the sink, pausing only to grab a paper towel, I screamed for my husband.

 
“I think I’m going to need a stitch,”  I yelled.  The bleeding was not abating.  He looked and agreed a trip to the urgent care was needed.   Tightly wrapping my finger, we hurried out.  So shaken, I could barely complete the paperwork, as I anxiously anticipated the pain of a needle.  I prayed and offered up my suffering, mostly of my own making at this point, but the image of that darn needle continued to poke my imagination.

 
At last called to a room, the nurse asked to look.  Through squinted eyes, I cautiously unwrapped the towel expecting the worst.  

 
“Huh?”  The bleeding had stopped.  I then stammered, “Maybe we didn’t need to come in.”

 
The nurse said nothing about my remark, but advised the I keep my finger raised upward.  After looking she suggested that maybe it could be glued.  I liked that thought!  Glue is good…glue is…bloodless…glue is painless.

 
Then, she asked when I had last had a tetanus shot.  It had been years.  Ok, great, a needle after all.   Win some, lose some.  I kept praying, accepted the will of God, lowered the blouse over my shoulder, and tightly closed my eyes to the tiny pricker.  (I was hardly in the ranks of early Christians facing the lions’ fangs.)  

 
The doctor concurred that glue would work, and his sense of humor helped.  Still feeling somewhat guilty for my panicked reaction—good thing the clinic was not at all busy—he assured me that many people reacted the same way.  He then grabbed a rather large bottle and held it up explaining, “See this bottle?  You could lose enough blood to fill it and still live.”

 
I nearly vomited at the words, imagining the bottle…topped with blood…my blood.  However, it was not until later that I contemplated that experience, more deeply in the context of martyrdom,  and in a conversation with Jesus Christ.  

 
“Some martyr I would make.  Did you see how I was with that small wound at the tip of one finger?”  I communicated after one Communion.  Of course Jesus had seen it, actually from all time.  Then, it dawned on me that the accident had happened on a Friday, the day we contemplate the Sorrowful Mysteries, and in the month of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, no less.   I did not feel guilty as much as appropriately humbled.  

 
The accident forced me to realize that I should never anticipate such an end as martyrdom.  Moreover,  if such a time ever did present itself, I would absolutely need all of God’s loving help to endure it.   I also understood that what led to St. Peter’s transformation was being chastened by his braggadocios bravado turned to adamant denial and fleeing Jesus’s Crucifixion.  Ultimately, this relatable martyr came to understand that fortitude comes from God, but in His time and His way when most needed.

 
In the meantime, I did offer up all the annoying pain every time I bumped that sore finger.  Such reminded me, also, that it may well be the little crosses that most cause us to stumble and ask for that grace.   As a marveous former chaplain once repeated often:  Take courage!  I am becoming a more eager reciepient.