Thorny Bush of Near Death

As I was toiling in the garden, I came too near a malicious rosebush. Suddenly, viciously, it swatted at me with the swift backhand from one of its branches. Multiple thorns dug into my flesh, and as I attempted to evade another blow, the hooked blades struck deeper and deeper, eliciting a torrent of blood and ripping my skin open to the sun. I watched in utter horror as the long gashes on my arm widened, and blood dripped from my fingers onto the ground, turning green weeds red.

The truth is, I got too near a rosebush, and one of the thorns jabbed me. It was barely enough to break the skin, while the tiniest amount of blood, too little even for a mosquito’s snack, did emerge. But it was not enough to cause a major medical incident.

We can paint any moment anyway we want since the power of language is so great. But we need to be careful not to paint a mundane event as a crisis or believe those who do so.