‘Tis the week before Christmas, and I am all settled in at urgent care for a long wait, because a cough has nestled deep in my chest.
Momma in her kerchief. (At least that’s where her bright, shiny nose is, but I’m not shooting for a mashup of Christmas stories.)
The nurse finally calls me back and tells me I’m patient number 10,000 coming through the clinic doors with a cough this winter. The whole valley is hacking. “It’s lingering for six weeks,” she tells me, and I am not encouraged.
Everyone is sick, and we just want to feel better.
And so came the baby Jesus.
When evening came…he healed all the sick. This was to fulfill what was spoken through the prophet Isaiah: He took up our infirmities and carried our diseases. (Matthew 8:16-17 NIV)
Here I sit in urgent care, with a lingering illness, and I can feel the temporary, running-down nature of my body. A “tent” Paul calls it in one setting and a “jar of clay” he says in another.
Maybe there’s no better place to get one’s mind on the Lord than in an urgent care clinic. I need to be saved from decay, inside and out, so I pop another Ricola in my mouth and say, “Come, Lord Jesus.”