Brittle bones, but bold spirit. She stands, completely alone, on a stage before one of the world’s biggest audiences.
Her stature is like a 1990’s model; no form, no shape. Hair cropped.
My mind stretches, “What’s her story? Why is she here?”
And I think that is also our question. For Nightbirde. For ourselves. Who are we and why are we here?
In the past few years, we have all gotten skinnier, trimmed the fat, been rid of masked presentations that hide us, like Guchi or plastic models hidden in make-up.
We all want to fly.
We all long to be seen, stand on a stage, before the One asking us, “Why?”
“Why did we do what we did? Say what we said? Why didn’t we beg for something more, when our flesh was found useless?”
Our Spirit’s are all that really matters when the walls and facade’s come crashing down.
Nightbirde’s story was real, genuine, pure. Something we all crave.
Yet, cancer. Cancer had ravished her body.
Was cancer her crucifix that led her to such purification? The thorn in her flesh? The cross she was called to carry?
More heartbreakingly…
Her husband walked out on her, just when she needed him most.
A crippled past where her voice was stolen, her identity taken, like a badger who robs what is not his, when no one is looking.
She was raw. Real. Authentically calling forth her being, living her destiny, right there on the stage before us.
“You can’t wait until life isn’t hard anymore, before you decide to be happy”. Nightbirde instructs Simon Cowell, America’s Got Talent judge known for his cynicism.
He gives her the Golden Buzzer despite her prophetic utterances. An original song, raspy voice, an honesty he responds to in the end. (Watch here)
Happiness. What is happiness?
It’s almost Father’s Day. My dad isn’t with us in the same way he was before. He fought cancer, like Nightbirde, with valiant courage, great faith, and a dignity that is only seen in the rare; the special, the chosen.
He was everything I thought he was and more, in those gasping moments, dragging his bones across the floor, like Nightbirde did across the stage.
He was performing his final play. And yet, didn’t know it. None of us wanted to believe it. We had fought so hard. He had fought so bravely.
I struggle to speak of him in the wake of all He was…
Not because He isn’t my hero, the air beneath my wings, but because I am afriad, one mention of his name will put even more nails in his coffin…
And my memories might fade.
The coffin. That thing I almost jumped on and refused to let fall into the ground on the day of his burial.
As Christians, we….or maybe just I…was taught to be positive and optimistic.
But toxic positivity can cripple the realist. It can burn the hearts of those with scars, and shrink them when the spotlight shines critically.
In light of plastic smiles, those of us battered and beaten from our plights, in light, can become ashamed of our scars.
Ashamed of the mere bones that we walk on the stages of our lives with…
Because we know inside, cancer is eating us.
We can want to run; from the pain, the diagnosis, the welts of flesh rising from the moment when our lives were almost taken from us.
Who ever flaunts their nasty scars?
So we can gasp for air, as if it is us with cancer. Us with a death sentence. Us with the imperfections Jesus might turn away from.
No one ever wants a spotlight shone on their scars.
But, another also has scars.
Some have the scars from the ports that pierced their flesh, the growths internally that were cut from them.
But the one I know, didn’t bury His hands, turn away in shame or run from the cast God had called Him to play.
He walked into the light of a fully dimmed room.
He revealed himself to who God had given Him.
He pulled up his sleeves, and exposed the pain, much like Nightbirde, who bravely gave her story of the evil’s of cancer riddling her body.
He walked TOWARDS the doubters.
Who are the doubters in your life? Who are those that only love smooth skin? Who demands you to be a perfect witness to their own righteousness?
Who has forced on you their false belief systems, insisting you can make it into heaven only is you too don’t have any scars?
If we are not scarred like Jesus, are we even really His?
Have we bore our crosses? Stumbled along the narrow pathways that led us to our crucifixion. Here. Now. In this life…As Scripture commands its followers?
Or have we skated through? Found every loophole to avoid the pain? Painted a perfect frame around us? Believed that Jesus only chooses the most flawless pictures?
I am Nightbirde. And I think we all are, really, if we’ll caste our fake images down on the footsteps of the One who took all pain and death.
God decorates a banquet table and asked the perfect. But then, unresponding, He turns and requests the wandering to come to His banquet feast. (Luke 14:15-24)
Did He know the perfect have no need for a Savior?
Did Jesus give this analogy to show us, although all are invited, only those with their own scars recognize they are famished and will do anything to set themselves down to enjoy what He was offering?
Did He first reach the Pharisees? Did John the Baptist call the church first, but those “Brood of Vipors” were too busy judging and catagorizing in their own minds, who was holy and what in fact was of God?
Why did Jesus walk towards the lepers, plagued with sickness; like Nightbirde, like my Father…Like me?
And yet, He showed mercy. He showed them the way, even though they were outcasted and undeserving according to some religious circles.
Why are we afraid of our brokenness? Ashamed of our scars?
Why do we give the flawless ones…the ones sitting on the sidelines protecting their image..any right to speak over us?
Doesn’t our only worth come from the One who made us?
If Jesus had scars, then so can we.
I stumble upon a blog post entitled, “God is on the Bathroom Floor”. It’s written by Nightbirde, the America’s Got Talent cancer patient who says she wants to be known for more than just her diagnosis.
She has seen Jesus. She is intimate, connected with the God who made her.
And I wonder, where do you see Jesus? Where have you most recognized His face?
I have seen Him by the graveside of my Father. In the beams of an old house, in the middle of a ragging party as a teenager.
I have witnessed my God come alive in a hospital full of cancerous children. In the mountains of Guatemala. In the faces of railroad track orphans, heads racing with thousands of lice.
And he was there, with my Daddy, who won’t be with us this Father’s Day.
He was there in the filling of his lungs, the gasping of his breath, the last look and touch and last kiss given to my hero, on his soft, bald forehead.
He was there with every breathe when He whispered, “I love you, Baby”, as life was slowly dripping from him.
He knew I had my scars. He knew I was miserably broken and needy, fragile and incapable to find the strength to go on without the hand to hold of my earthly Father…
And yet, He loved me. He saw my scars and He loved me anyway.
This is how I imagine the Father in heaven sees us…
Broken. Standing on a stage. Gasping for air. Desperate to find our voices again.
And it is there, Our Savior roles up his sleeves. He leans down in faith. He stares at us with a love that saturates all the empty places of our hearts…
And He doesn’t hide, but reveals and reminds us, “Look, it’s o.k. I have scars too.”
Those nail scared hands, that pierced side. Those scars on his feet, left as a reminder to us…
Our Savior was broken too.
It is then we can sing. We all can sing on this stage of life, despite our pain, and regardless of our scars.
Coming into the light. And knowing, we are loved just the way we are.
Won’t you let your voice rise, and sing despite your scars?
