Christ Be All Around Me, Including the Bathroom Floor

Short and sweet health update: I had an MRI this past Monday. The tumor is stable, which is the goal, and my next scan is in December.

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I couldn’t have known at the time, but I texted a friend—one who had gone through her own form of a cataclysmic health crisis—the morning of February 7, 2024, at 7:05 a.m., two days after my brain biopsy, and wrote, “Last night wasn’t a great night. I felt like I was on the verge of a seizure all night without actually having one. Around 5:00 a.m., I woke up with this thought, and you came to mind: I think I’m about to fully discover for myself what Nightbirde meant when she said, ‘God is on the bathroom floor.’” 

By that same afternoon, my neuro-oncologist walked into my hospital room and shared—my tumor was, in fact, cancerous. My words had unfortunately been prophetic. There would be no escaping the bathroom floor kind of season on its way.

To fully understand this text, you need to know who Nightbirde was. Her real name was Jane Marczewski, and she first hit the public’s radar when she performed an original song, “It’s OK,” on America’s Got Talent in June 2021. She stunned the judges with her performance—so much so that Simon Cowell reached for the Golden Buzzer and sent gold confetti raining down around her. She had an ethereal, light quality to her voice, and her backstory deepened the gravity of the song: "I was a stick of dynamite and it just was a matter of time."

Her backstory was this: she had cancer in her lungs, spine, and liver, and she was working hard to keep her health on track at the time of the performance. Even with the Golden Buzzer, she had to withdraw from the competition in August because her health had deteriorated so much. She ultimately died months later in February 2022.

I remember watching that performance, similarly stunned by both her beauty and her voice. Like most people, I immediately turned to the internet to find out more about her. One of the first things I discovered was a blog post she had written in March 2021, titled “God is on the Bathroom Floor.” I read it with tears in my eyes as she recounted the toll the cancer was taking on her mind and body. Her writing style was compelling and emotionally gripping. In some ways, I was jealous of how good of a writer she was. I printed off a copy of the post and kept tucked it in the front of my journal for years, just because, as a writer, I wanted to aspire to that kind of storytelling. I certainly didn’t want her story as a way to get there—but as it turns out, I did receive that kind of story. Only it became one all my own.

Thus, the 7:05 a.m. text to my friend, in which I said I felt like I was about to enter my own “bathroom floor” season. For two years now, I’ve mulled over how to write a blog post that somehow matched Jane’s and the imagery she used—proof that, somehow, my story might be worthy. I fabricated an arbitrary benchmark as a writer and storyteller. I wondered if there was a way to put a quippy spin on her title, but everything I thought of sounded lame, like I was trying too hard. 

I was trying to put a square peg in a round hole. 

And that peg just.would.not.go.in.

It finally occurred to me that I could not write what Jane wrote. 

I needed to stop trying to put the square peg in the round hole. That bathroom floor was all hers, not mine. I simply could not fully relate to what she wrote. Did I spend some time on the bathroom floor? You bet I did. Other than a few bits, though, her post holds little reflection of my own experience. There was no spin to be had.

I never called God a cheat or a liar, and I was never bitter.

I was never cynical, angry, hardened, or offended. By the grace of God, those were simply not components or facets of my story.

It’s okay that she felt those things. And that I didn't. Neither story has anything to prove. There is no “God is on the Bathroom Floor” post for me. If anything, it would probably be “God is in the MRI Machine” because that always seemed to be this oddly sweet place that God would send me songs that would speak precisely to something I needed to be encouraged about or reminded of. This latest MRI included Ayanda Khumalo’s song “Psalm 18,” on which I am hooked.

The reality is that Christ is in me—and all around me. The bathroom floor. The MRI tube. The surgical table. The ER. The gym. My house. My parents’ house. My office floor. There is nowhere I go that he is not.

My friend texted later that fateful morning in response, “Dear friend, I have been there; on that bathroom floor with God nearby. You may be getting ready to enter into your bathroom floor season, but what I know and trust is that HE will be with you in every moment.”

Indeed, Christ was—and is—all around me, including the bathroom floor.

"Where can I go from your Spirit?

Where can I flee from your presence?

If I go up to the heavens, you are there;

if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.

If I rise on the wings of the dawn,

if I settle on the far side of the sea,

even there your hand will guide me,

your right hand will hold me fast.

If I say, “Surely the darkness will hide me

and the light become night around me,”

even the darkness will not be dark to you;

the night will shine like the day,

for darkness is as light to you." (Psalm 139:7-12)

Yesterday’s Yes Isn’t Enough

I had a clear line of sight to the man. The poor guy. From the back of the room, I could tell he was nearly beside himself—pacing, stopping, praying, fidgeting. He clearly was having some sort of moment. Within the hour, I would discover that all that pacing and praying were merely an introduction to one of the wildest moments of my own life.

I lived in San Diego for ten weeks between my sophomore and junior years of college. About 120 college students from across the country gathered to serve coworkers and share the love of Christ with other college students at many of San Diego’s major universities. The vast majority of us worked at SeaWorld San Diego, but a handful found jobs through their own connections. It was an accelerated, intense time of leadership development and spiritual growth. That summer radically formed the foundation of my walk with Christ.

One particular night, the staff hosted what we called the International Dinner. It was a time to draw attention to the various corners of the world that did not have access to the gospel through a very unique object lesson. Students were divided into groups and assigned a country, each group situated in areas within a large multipurpose room at a local church. I and about eight other students were assigned to Russia and situated off to the side of the room. One group of students was assigned to a country I can’t even recall and was relegated to a closet, out of sight and entirely separated from everyone else. Another group was assigned to America and placed on a platform in the center of the room. The remaining students were split into various other countries. The memories are hazy, as I can’t even recall what the goal was, but somehow I know I was trying to figure out how to “leave” Russia and kept running into roadblocks, all while I watched the Americans being served a lavish meal of steaks and all the fixings. I think I may have had access to some crackers. Best I could tell, the people in the closet weren’t getting anything. What happened to dinner? I wondered to myself.

The rumpled 21-year old invitation to
the most unexpected moment of my life.

At first, I wasn’t picking up on the object lesson—all I wanted was some food that was more substantial than what I was getting. As the evening progressed, however, I could tell the light bulbs were going off one by one for each of us, a slow dawning as the comparisons sank in—the Americans were up on the platform with an abundance of food, while the rest of the spacious room had varying levels of access to food. But the revelation wasn’t just about who had the most food, but a much deeper spiritual reality: who was able to “feast” on the Word of God and how easily they were able to do that.

I could tell the energy in the room was shifting dramatically to a much deeper, more desperate quality as we all rapidly processed that this night was turning out to be nothing like we had anticipated. It was clear none of us saw this object lesson coming.

Afterward, we had a large-group debriefing time. I honestly don’t remember whether I ate a meal that night or not. By that point, it didn’t matter. What was clear was that the presence of the Holy Spirit was moving in our midst.

Enter the poor guy from the beginning, standing off to the side, and me, sitting in the back. The guy’s real name was Dustin. I barely knew him. I had been around him maybe twice in group settings, and I don’t think we’d even had so much as a one-on-one conversation. In fact, we were already several weeks into the summer when all of this unfolded. We must have been doing some kind of icebreaker when we first crossed paths, because I do recall him mentioning that he felt God was calling him to go to Turkey one day. So, I knew that much about him.

As the debriefing continued that night, I was feeling the power and weight of the moment myself. I was praying and listening deeply to the staff director as he talked about God’s heart for the nations, but I kept watching Dustin fidget. He would lean against the wall, close his eyes, apparently deep in prayer. Then he’d open his eyes and pace a few steps. His body just kept moving. I knew something was up, and that the night seemed to be hitting him differently than it was most of us. The rest of us were seated in chairs, almost afraid to move and somehow break the spiritual presence that had fallen. Not Dustin. The boy was all over the place in his own little zone.

Then I got an unmistakable impression in my spirit, like pressure in my chest and a total-body flush:

Tell Dustin to go to Turkey.

My heart immediately started racing, followed by a frenzied, skeptical dialogue with God. No way am I telling this guy to go to Turkey—I barely know him. That would be weird.

Tell Dustin to go to Turkey.

Sorry, God, ain’t happening. Find somebody else.

Tell Dustin to go to Turkey.

Tell Dustin to go to Turkey.

Tell Dustin to go to Turkey.

It was an inescapable refrain in my heart and mind, all within the span of minutes. My palms were sweating at this point. What was I supposed to do—just waltz over to this guy, who was essentially a stranger, and say, “Hey, I know we don’t really know each other, but God told me to tell you to go to Turkey”? That’s crazy talk. But the command was relentless, and I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was of God.

So I relented and agreed. Fine, I’ll go over once the director is done speaking. I was hoping that somehow, between now and then, God would alter the course. The director wrapped up and dismissed us. People got up to move around and talk some more. I was zeroed in on Dustin because I didn’t want to lose sight of him in the crowd. My eyes tracked him, and he disappeared out the balcony door. My heart was pounding, and I really didn’t want to be the freak who delivered this message to him out of the blue. I followed him out, and I could tell he was still in a state of angst. He was leaning on the balcony rail, darkness all around except for the glow from the interior lights. I walked over and stood next to him, with a good foot or so between us. It felt weird to get too close, and he wasn’t really aware of my presence yet either.

I piped up, hoping not to startle him out of whatever zone he was in. “Dustin, I have something I need to tell you, but it can wait, and I can just tell you when we get back to the condos.”

“No, no, go ahead and tell me now.”

Dang, I had hoped I would be off the hook.

“You need to go to Turkey,” I said matter-of-factly, without introduction or explanation.

I thought his eyes were going to pop out of his head, his mouth opening wider and wider, like he’d been struck dumb.

He responded, “I literally had been praying just now that God would send someone to tell me to go to Turkey.”

Now it was my turn for my eyes to pop out of my head and for my mouth to hang open.

What on earth was happening?

We went back inside eventually and the story spread quickly, as we were all still gathered and students were milling about. What had God just done through the power of the Holy Spirit? Dustin was in disbelief. I was in disbelief. Everyone else was in disbelief. The night had already been intense, and then this catapulted us into the outer stratosphere of intense. I kept hugging him. He kept hugging me. A strange bond formed between us in that moment—the message-giver and the message-receiver linked by a crazy, God-ordained moment.

Something like that had never happened to me before that night, and it has never happened since.

It’s easy to want to linger in those spiritual high moments, isn’t it? To be like Peter, James, and John on the Mount of Transfiguration in Matthew 17 and ask Jesus if we can pitch tents and stay. Those moments don’t come around very often. Clearly. But that’s where a lot of us long to be all the time, don’t we? We want to find ourselves camped out in the moments that astound us, leaving us in awe and wonder. We don’t want to traverse the valleys ever again.

For years after, I kept longing for that kind of moment again, like I had with Dustin—and ultimately with God. Moments when you know undeniably what God is asking of you. For sure, there have been numerous times when God has made it clear to me what I needed to do in certain circumstances and relationships, but never with that kind of unique quality.

And that has often been a barrier in my relationship with God: wanting to somehow go back to the good ol’ days. My college years in general were some of the most intense years of my life, not just that summer. So many moments with Jesus in those years, packed with fresh revelation, understanding, growth, and unparalleled community and fellowship with other believers. Those were legitimately good days for me.

And here this summer, I find myself not so much longing for those college days specifically, but certainly longing for last summer, albeit not physically. I’m definitely glad chemo is behind me, but spiritually speaking, last summer held its own kind of sweetness. A year ago, I was heading into my final rounds of chemo, and I found myself protective of my time and attention. And God met me in such a tender time. I didn’t watch any TV or movies last summer. I didn’t blog. I cut out a lot of things. I focused for months on a study on the life of Elijah as I felt myself relating in so many ways, feeling like I was being hidden in my own ravine with God. Revelations were pouring out, and God was clearly speaking to me through his Word. Everything felt fresh and alive in a way that I had not experienced in a long time.

But I can’t keep feeding off what once was. As the lyrics go in one of Anna Golden’s new songs, “Yesterday’s yes won’t get me where I need to go.” Yesterday’s yes isn’t enough to sustain me today. I need a fresh surrender. I can acknowledge that that crazy moment from twenty-one years ago, standing on a balcony and telling a boy to go to Turkey, was incredible. And I can acknowledge that last summer—and countless other unmentioned moments in my walk with God—was incredible in its own way.

But they can’t be the bread that feeds me today. All the yeses from yesterday aren’t enough.

I need a fresh surrender. I can’t copy and paste my walk with God. Each day, I have to draw on fresh manna, just as the ancient Israelites did as they wandered the wilderness. We are all in our own kind of wilderness as we tread this planet. Your yesterday’s yes to God can’t be today’s yes. You’ll find it’s not enough, no matter how much you might wish it could be. That’s why it’s called daily bread. So, no more copying and pasting, deal?

These memories don't really serve me

I get lost trying to track down a feeling

Thought the silence meant that you stopped speaking

So I got tired of all the waiting

And I recycled revelation

And I'm sorry to say it but I thought I'd be ok this way

Don't wanna burn with second hand fire

Strike the match ignite my bones

Yesterdays yes won't get me where I need to go (where I need to go)

I need a fresh wind sweeping through the temple

I need fresh oil on my head

I can't live off yesterday's manna

I need that daily bread

Can I really call them ebenezers

When I don't call you when I need ya

What good's remembering what you've done if

I don't trust what you can do next

I've made an idol out of good things

I call you Jireh but I trust me

I won't see the ram just hiding in the thicket if I'm not not listening

Can't copy and paste this

Phone it in fake it

I need a fresh surrender

Thinking I made it

Calling it sacred

I need a fresh surrender