I Tried to Give Blood

I tried to give blood, once. I went to the donor center, and stepped right up and sat in the chair and they looked at my arm and said, “You’ve got good veins.” I knew I had good veins. I had pride in my veins back then. My daily habit at that time was to lift weights for about an hour-and-a-half a day, then use the elliptical for 30 minutes a day and then swim for 45 minutes a day. It was an insane work out, and if I had known how muscles work I would not have done it that way. My muscles weren’t getting much bigger because they never got to rest. But my veins were sticking out more because I was running out of body fat--and water.

I’ve been reading the book of Job this week. Job’s three “friends” were actually sinning while telling him how sinful he must be because they were quite proud of how sinless they were. Anyway, I was no Job: I was proud of my veins.

The nurse told me I had nice veins, stuck the needle in my arm and told me to let her know if I had any dizziness or light-headedness. I told her almost immediately that I had these issues. She told me to count down from 100 or say the alphabet backwards--I guess to keep my mind focused on something--and then I started hearing static. I told her I was hearing static, and then I passed out. When I came to she was putting a blanket over me. I had only been unconscious for a couple of seconds, but it was long enough for me to pee my pants.

That’s right. I peed my pants. Right there in front of everybody. She didn’t put the blanket over me because she thought I might be chilly; she put the blanket over me to hide the pee spot. They gave me a gigantic pair of scrub pants to wear, and I put them on and sat there eating cookies and drinking kool-aid for a couple of hours, trying to recuperate enough to drive home.

And I peed on myself for nothing. They threw the bit of blood they had taken from me in the trash. But I’m no Job. I didn’t return the pants for about eight years.

I wonder sometimes if I have anything to add to the world at large because I haven’t encountered much personal tragedy. (I am aware that the story of when I peed my adult pants is comic, not tragic.) Struggles create character, just like exercise builds muscles. We may need a rest time between struggles in order to allow our character to fully heal between bouts, but without hard times we become soft people. That, perhaps, is part of the reason that it is harder for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven than it is to put a camel through the eye of a needle. And, perhaps, it’s why so many Americans have trouble believing in anything; most people in the middle and upper classes have never really struggled. We’ve never had to believe in anything. We’ve got our beds and our food and our iPhones. We even have extra blood. Who needs God?

Rough times can sharpen a person into a useful tool for God. Why did bad stuff happen to Job? For the glory of God. No matter what happens, I am convinced that everything will ultimately bring glory to God. Even peeing my pants.