Soiling Myself Shogun Style.

Posted: February 8, 2018 in Uncategorized

It was a beautiful night…
Diana and I were enjoying a nice, quiet, semi-romantic evening out: a little dinner, a deep conversation, we were planning on going to some sickeningly romantic movie. It promised to be a truly unforgettable evening…
and that is exactly what it became…

We went to eat at one of those Shogun Japanese steak houses where an authentic samurai-style chef named Juan comes out armed with a sword, a spatula, and a tall hat. He slices, dices, and prepares your meal right in front of you. It’s all very exciting.
As we sat next to a giant aquarium full of sickly looking fish, our chef juggled our steak, seafood, and vegetables. (I guess it’s all right to play with someone else’s food, just not your own.) He threw sharp knives and salt shakers around just inches away from our faces. This meal was death-defying stuff. He flipped some shrimp and made a little onion volcano. It was soy sauce saturated entertainment!
Finally he finished the show, and we got to eat.
I was starving by then so I quickly inhaled my meat, veggies, and fried rice.
We were having a great time.
I was enjoying spending some time with my beautiful wife.
all of that was about to be shattered by a rumbling in my stomach. I tried to ignore it. I sat there and drank a little hot tea. But the rumbling got louder and more violent. It became painfully obvious something in my tummy was desperately trying to fight its way out. I knew if I didn’t find a bathroom right away, things were going to get real ugly. I tried to quietly excuse myself. I walked briskly to the men’s restroom, reached down to open the door, and found it locked. The restroom was occupied!
I could feel my colon about to make a serious download, and I knew time was running out. I knocked on the bathroom door and heard a raspy voice inside say, “Hold on, partner—I’ll be out in a few minutes. A few minutes? I did NOT have a few minutes.
I looked over and noticed that the women’s bathroom door was cracked open. I assumed this meant no one was in there. So I waddled over and swung open the door, only to discover that someone WAS in there. She screamed and let the entire restaurant know I was a filthy pervert.
I did the “trying to take my mind off this” dance, but it didn’t work.
It was bad.
I tightened every muscle in my body, hoping this would somehow hold things off. I heard the guy in the men’s restroom flush. Then he started washing his hands and whistling.
I couldn’t believe it.
Finally he began to open the door. At that point, it seemed like everything was in slow motion. He was an elderly man wearing a cowboy hat. He looked at me and said, “I don’t know what your cotton-pickin’ hurry was.”
At that precise moment, when I was just inches away from the porcelain promised land, my body reached the point of no control. I lost control, and my muscles, which up to this point had fought a brave battle to contain the coming flood, gave up. Right there in a Japanese restaurant in Arlington, Texas…
I soiled my shorts.
It was violent and loud and terrifying.
I made a sad, futile attempt to clean myself up. Then I tried to walk out like nothing had happened. Diana said, “Hey, Babe, do you want dessert?”
I looked at her with a pained expression and said in a hushed tone, “I pooped my pants.”
She said, “What did you say?”
I replied, “I…pooped…my…pants!”
She looked at me with a compassionate yet confused look and said, “Eeww!”
We walked out of there, trying not to draw any attention to me or my defiled pants. The hostess, who was wearing a brightly colored kimono, said, “Thank you. Have a nice evening.”
I looked at her and said, “I pooped my pants…”


Epilogue (or why in the world I would tell this story): I know what you’re thinking: Man, that’s gross. I’ve lost all respect for you, Luke. Why would you include this story?
Here’s why. A few weeks after this incident, I was speaking at a youth rally. I shared this story, and it seriously disturbed some people. But one disheveled-looking junior high boy came up to me and said, “You know, I pooped my pants a while back, and I thought I was the biggest loser in the world. And then I heard your story, and I realized everybody does that once in a while, and I realized I’m okay.”
THAT, my friend, is why I share this story. Because maybe, just maybe it will make someone realize they are okay. You can feel amazing liberation in knowing you’re not the only one who has messed up or failed or disappointed someone.
Two of the most powerful words in the English language are “me too”.
When we become vulnerable and completely honest, we open the door for others to identify with our mistakes or struggles. That opens the door for healing to happen. This is how we turn failure into fruit.
But too often we try to maintain the perfect facade, and we’re afraid to let people know we stumble and sin and soil ourselves. I’m not willing or wired to play that game anymore. If by exposing my shortcomings, someone else can find hope, humor, and healing, then I’ll do it. (I think that’s fairly obvious now.)
Something amazing happens when I admit to myself and those around me that despite my hard work and best intentions, I’m not cool and I won’t ever be cool—and it’s okay. Because God, who knows me more than anyone, accepts me, even when I soil myself, and he loves me. And not only does God love me, but he also likes me. And he feels the same way about you. When we’re honest and open about our weaknesses, God’s strength is truly allowed to show through us.

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