Module One - Don’t Take 4 Imodium
In 2022, I moved to California for a so-called “one-year sabbatical” to study at a ministry school—which is a whole other story. I was embarking on a new chapter. I was tired of London, depressed, burnt out, disappointed. I had had enough of benign weather chat and cold stares on the tube, so the West Coast it was.
When I fly, I always take Imodium. For some reason, when I go on holiday, my digestive system does too, it downs tools as soon as we’re in the air. To put it in layman’s terms, I get well loads of diarrhoea. The emphasis on 'well loads' here.
Usually, I take one Imodium. That solves it. End of story. Case closed. Verdict reached. A done deal. The final word.
However, for some reason this time—and to this day I don’t know why, maybe it was anxiety, maybe it was the excitement of a new chapter, but anyway—I took four.
Four.
Not two, not three… four.
Four Imodium. Let the adventure begin. Can I get an Amen?
Little did I know I was about to have a throne-room encounter that would shake me to my core, I would never be the same again.
I made it to Los Angeles and stayed with a friend. No issues. I was living in this blissful, diarrhoea-free utopia. I could barely even remember I had taken four - yes again, four! I was in la-la land—both physically and gastrointestinally. (is that a word?)
The next morning, I flew to where the ministry school was. I was met by my host. I’d never met this guy before—his name was Ivan, he seemed quiet, introverted, a sweet guy. We went for a lovely Chinese buffet meal in the upstairs of an airport which should be better signposted, I feel they are losing money. Anyway we then drove back and he showed me around the pad, what would be my home for the next nine months.
Thankfully he was also British, so we made small talk, bonding over shared cultural nuances and habits of queuing and politely apologising. I was slowly settling in. My nervous system was beginning to calm. Beginning to feel at one almost. Look at me, I had moved across the world all as a response to God's call, I was almost impressed with myself. I wonder if the great saints ever felt like this.
And then it hit.
“I need the toilet.”
I promptly entered the bathroom Ivan had shown me moments earlier.
I loosened my trousers, expecting routine drop-off.
Very quickly, I realised this was anything but routine.
This was a once-in-a-generation moment. A moment akin to 9/11 or JFK—one that shifts something globally, one whose aftershocks are felt for years to come. My children's children would mark this occasion.
To say I was congested is putting it lightly. That’s like saying Hitler was bad at painting.
I was stuck. It was like LA traffic in there. Nothing moving. Gridlocked.
I knew I had the fight of my life on my hands.
I began to strain. To dig deep. To mobilise muscles I didn’t even know existed. I felt like Jacob wrestling the angel in the book of Genesis.
An hour passed. No progress.
Ivan must have thought his tour had gone terribly wrong and I was deeply offended.
Meanwhile, I was in my own personal storm—praying, singing in tongues, playing worship music on my phone. I tried everything to shift the blockade.
At one point, I even attempted deliverance.
“I command you to get out now!”
I was like Gandalf, the toilet brush as my staff.
Ivan had probably already started looking for a new roommate based on the sounds coming from that bathroom.
At one point, I genuinely thought I might need like a caesarean. Doctors would have to cut it out.
Finally—after two hours of labour—I am relieved to say I gave birth.
Praise the Lord.
I could finally relax. I had gone to war, and I had won. I had passed through the dark night of the soul.
This is what being one of David’s mighty men must've felt like.
You would think that’s the end of the story.
Nope..
In my relief and exhaustion, I looked down.
Blood.
Everywhere.
Yeah… I know.
This is the part where people stop laughing and actually get concerned.
And just to add context—I struggle with health anxiety and obsessive thoughts.
So naturally, my first thought was:
“I am internally bleeding.”
Within seconds, I spiralled into a full-blown panic attack.
Where I’m from—where most people are from—if blood is coming from the behind it’s not a sign of good luck or blessing to come.
I started hyperventilating in the bathroom.
From outside the door, Ivan casually called out that he was about to put dinner on.
“Cool,” I replied, trying not to reveal the absolute chaos unfolding within me.
My thoughts were sprinting like Michael Johnson at Atlanta 96.
How long do I have left?Will my health insurance cover this?Did God bring me to California just to die? Is this my final farewell?
Do I qualify as a martyr?
I eventually edged out of the bathroom, my face like it had just seen Ghost with Patrick Swayze.
Remember—this is Day 1.
Day 1 of my new life.
I paced around my tiny box-room.
Why did my new life have to start like this?
Why couldn’t day 1 of my new era be learning how to use the oven or something? Or me getting out and about exploring the town?
Why was it me bleeding out my ass and believing I was terminally ill?
Eventually, I had to tell Ivan—a man I’d known for less than 24 hours.
“Hi Ivan…”
“You okay for towels? Bed alright? You know we’ve got a gym out there if you—”
“I’m bleeding.”
Pause.
“From behind.”
Another pause.
“Oh… okay.”
Not exactly the first impression I had in mind.
Ivan was very gracious, in fact he had actually been to medical school.
He calmly talked me down, reassured me it wasn’t anything serious, and explained that I had likely just caused a small tear..
(No, he did not examine me.)
In that moment, it felt catastrophic and life ending—but in reality, it wasn’t.
Out of all the people I could have been placed with, I ended up with a bloke who went to med school and could calmly talk me down off the ledge.
Ivan, to his credit, never brought it up again.
So why do I share all of this? Yeah I do ask myself that, why do I volunteer all of this information publicly? Do people really need a bleeding from the arse story to add to their day? Probably not. There are definitely more dignified ways of getting my point across.
But I share it as a reminder:
What is a drama in the moment can turn into a comedy for a life time. The Lord is in the business of turning short-term tragedy into long-term comedy. Serious to unserious. Mourning into joy. Water into wine.
Psalm 30:5 “Weeping may stay for the night, but rejoicing comes in the morning.”
Yeah this isn’t a new trendy revelation, nor a complicated exegesis.
It's just the same old boring 'God works things for good'. That's it I suppose.
What feels temporarily overwhelming will not last forever. The heavy is expectedly waiting to be turned into lightness.
You might be in a “toilet” story of your own right now. You might even be in a "toilet era." I've been there. You're stuck. You cannot laugh, yet. The key word: yet.
Maybe you're not in a tragedy or stagnancy, it's just the story hasn't become funny yet.
Trust that one day the story will become funny.
Let the Lord turn your tough moments into a comedy, that you can share with people years down the line.
Most of us are in a joy-crisis and we don't even know. We have been accustomed to this anaemic joy. We think joy is a luxury, fleeting, short-lived.
Kingdom joy is essential and I am tired of it being underrepresented. We should be convicted by our own miserableness. That is something to repent for. Joy is not a luxury item.
Just because you took 4 Imodium doesn't mean your constipated for life. (Merch idea maybe?)
There’s a good chance that in five years, you’ll look back not in regret but with laughter and not a polite laugh, but a full-fat belly laugh.
That’s not to downplay the seriousness of what you’re going through, but I do know this.
The Lord is in the joy business much more than he is in the despair business. Let the specialist do His work. The story doesn’t end in the bathroom, it just hasn't become funny yet.
Don't take 4 Imodium.