The Power of Small Acts Lessons from Philemon

In the quiet stillness of a night shift as an ER nurse, I often sit with the reality of death. The beeping monitors and the sterile scent of antiseptic create an atmosphere where the fragility of life is palpably felt. Each patient carries with them a story—a life filled with love, loss, and everything in between. It’s a stark reminder of the reality we all face: the inevitability of loss. Sometimes, we grapple with the death of our old selves, the patterns that no longer serve us, or relationships that have turned toxic. It's weighty, this acknowledgment. As I hold the hands of those in their final moments, I can’t help but reflect on my own life. What must die in order for me to truly live? What small acts can lead to resurrection? And how does the letter of Philemon offer insight into this process?

Naming What Must Die

To fully embrace the transformative power of small acts, I must first confront the elements in my life that need to die. This requires an honest assessment. For me, it often means recognizing the patterns of perfectionism that have choked my joy. The desire to be the perfect nurse, the perfect friend, the perfect daughter—these old identities create a constant internal pressure that sometimes leads to burnout. I find myself caught in a cycle of seeking validation through my accomplishments rather than resting in God’s grace. It must die.

The comfort of false securities also demands attention. In a world that often feels chaotic, I’ve clung to the illusion of control, thinking I can manage every situation. It’s a mirage that fades when faced with the unpredictability of life and death in the ER. The truth is, I cannot manage everything, and the realization makes my heart ache. This need to control must die.

Destructive relationships, too, weigh heavy on my spirit. There are friendships that have become burdensome rather than uplifting, filled with toxic patterns that drain my energy. The difficult act of letting go feels like a death itself, as I mourn the companionship that once brought joy. Letting go of these relationships is a necessary step into the new life God has for me. These patterns of destruction must die.

On a broader level, our culture often idolizes busyness, productivity, and success. This collective mindset contributes to a culture of burnout, where even small acts of kindness can feel like a burden rather than a joy. This must end, too. Naming these realities is the first step toward healing. As we confront what needs to die, we open the door for new life to emerge, much like the transformative grace depicted in Philemon.

The Descent into Death

Then comes the dying: it’s a painful journey, and I often find myself wrestling with the layers of grief that accompany letting go. The moments that feel like Gethsemane are etched deeply in my memory—the nights when I’ve knelt in prayer, heart racing, as I sought clarity on which relationships to sever. The agony of feeling torn, as if my very identity is at stake, echoes the struggle of Jesus in the garden. I can feel the sweat of surrender on my brow, each drop a testament to my resistance.

Stripping away the old self is often met with resistance. I remember a specific patient, an elderly man who clung to life with a fierce determination. His body was failing him, yet his ego fought against accepting the inevitable. I saw parallels in my own life—the ego death that must occur when I let go of control. The fear of what lies beyond grips my heart, whispering lies that I am not enough, that letting go means defeat.

There is pain in this descent, in recognizing the weight of expectations I’ve placed upon myself. It feels akin to the suffocation of an oxygen mask becoming too tight. As I navigate through my emotions, I often remind myself of the promise that lies ahead. Yet, in the moment, it feels heavy and isolating, as if I am walking through a thick fog that obscures the path forward.

My daily life reinforces this struggle. Whether it’s the patient who’s lost their battle and leaves behind a shattered family or the moments when I feel the weight of my own inadequacies. I experience visceral grief, a reminder that dying to self is not a one-time event but rather a continual process. I wade through the discomfort, feeling every pang of loss, every twinge of doubt, yet I remain anchored by the hope that something beautiful will eventually rise.

Holy Saturday Waiting

In the darkness: here lies the liminal space—the waiting between death and resurrection. Holy Saturday encapsulates this experience perfectly. I think of the disciples who were left waiting, grappling with despair as they processed the events of Good Friday. They had witnessed the death of their Teacher, and now they sat in silence, unable to comp