Scribed In Light

A few days ago, I found myself in the local ER. I had stumbled backwards over the house heifer – yes, my oversized and ever-present English Bulldog – striking my head and in need of medical attention.

While I waited, trying to nurse the searing pain and fog in my skull – and stay aware of the world around me – a quiet moment unfolded a few chairs away.

A mother and her preteen daughter walked in. – polite, the kind of peaceful presence that feels soft in a chaotic room. When the young girl’s name was called, she walked alone to the triage desk.

There, a staff member prepared to perform a nasal swab. Mid-swab, the girl – clearly startled – attempted to stifle it, yet let out a half-sneeze. An entirely natural, uncontrollable reflex. Her body was simply responding to a foreign object invading an already irritated space.

And yet…the staff member, eyes sharp and face distorted, snapped: “Don’t…Do That!”

The girl’s eyes grew wide and wet. She stood there, stunned – then broke into quiet tears. The employee removed her gloves and walked off with the sample, her voice trailing behind her like ice: “I really wish you hadn’t done that.”

The child turned, hands hiding her face, and walked back to her mom. Once there, she buried her face into her mother’s chest, and began to sob. Her mother soothed her as the daughter explained what happened – repeatedly expressing that it was an accident she could not help.

The air shifted. Like something fragile had just been bruised.

I sighed deeply…reached into my tote, brought out some tissues, and then stood. I walked over and offered them to the pair. I moved slowly – partly from pain and exhaustion – partly to give myself time for understanding. Hoping for grace to guide my thoughts into words of resolution, not anger.

I approached the triage desk. Not in anger. Not in performance, but with calm conviction and grace. I greeted the triage tech respectfully and kindly acknowledged the obvious intensity of her day. She admitted it had been rough. I gently shared that I had once worked the medical field, for 911, and understood full well the stacked demands and stressors that come with the job. Even so, I reminded her that stress should never control our response and strip away our humanity.

I recounted what I had just witnessed-softly, but clearly. Her face changed instantly, not with reflection, but with resistance. Her reply was sharp, almost defensive, her tone bristled with justification…even a bit of accusation towards the child. As if she purposefully did something wrong.

An excuse.

One she believed in enough to say it twice. Which, in fact, disturbed me more than the truth behind the incident itself.

“She didn’t sneeze. That girl blew her nose on me!”

I stood silent, quietly giving her time to breathe, regain her composure, possibly rethink how the event unfolded. However, she repeated it a second time, and louder. I leaned in and quietly replied.

“No, ma’am. I was sitting just there.” I motioned, so she could see I had a clear view, and was within earshot – merely a few feet away. “I was facing you and witnessed the entire event. She sneezed.”

“You – the trained adult in the room, inserted a foreign object into a nasal passage – her reflex was entirely natural. But what mattered more was your response. It was neither humanistic, nor medically sound. She sneezed in response to your intervention – with said foreign object inserted into her nostril- she even cried. You, however…. carelessly walked away. You didn’t check on her. You didn’t offer her comfort. You didn’t even offer her a tissue. That is not professional, nor was it efficient within your job skill-set, nor is it acceptable to how others would wish to be treated.”

Again, no compassion for the girl…nor understanding from her… just more excuse.

So I took it to the charge nurse – not to report with vengeance but to raise awareness about something deeper. This wasn’t about discipline. It was about human decency. Someone needed to assure this incident was noted, and quality assured – not only so that it didn’t reoccur…but too, because it left an unfair reflection of all other employees, working inside those walls.

This was about accountability.

This was about remembering that we all matter – especially the deferential ones among us.

That little girl may forget the swab one day. But she’ll remember the way the adult in charge wrongfully accused her, made her cry, and responded in negligence. She will forever rest upon those emotions and the impact that came with not being seen, or comforted. Those flavors, will be revisited – long after the incident has faded in her mind.

That is why excuses matter.

Because too often they become armor to protect our pride when we should be reaching for grace. They validate poor choices so we don’t have to stretch beyond our personal comforts and into a place of deeper growth.

And sometimes…they hurt others in the process.

We all fall short. I know I do. I’ve made my share of excuses to delay growth or avoid pain. But when our excuses start to shield us from the impact we’re having on others – when they serve as masks for apathy or cruelty – then it’s not just weakness. It’s harm, and we must be willing to do better.

So I leave you with this –

The next time you feel the urge to justify a reaction, delay a decision, or dismiss someone’s pain…pause. Ask yourself gently: Am I making an excuse, or am I facing the truth?

Because excuses may protect our comfort.

But truth?

Truth protects our soul.

I hope, for yourself – first and foremost…but also for those around you…and too, for those quietly watching – that you choose to always respond with truth, grace, and of course… love.

“People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.“

– Maya Angelou

“He that is good for making excuses is seldom good for anything else.” – Benjamin Franklin

Love, light, and grace…

Tina