If I am going to be sick, I want to be very sick. Sick enough that no one expects me to go to work or fold underwear or bake chicken or pour my own apple juice.
The worst sickness is the one that forces you through a box of Kleenex but doesn’t cause anyone to gasp at how you look and send you to bed.
I feel yucky, I told my husband.
I know baby, he said, and he gently rubbed my back.
Too far out from my dad’s funeral to get to stay home but still hurting. Maybe hurting for months and months. Girl getting married, too. Teaching is hard in this last quarter of the month. Checkbook numbers looking awfully small.
My heart pushes through a box of Kleenex, but I still have to get out of bed and iron a skirt for work.
Sniff. Keep going.
My co-worker sat next to me at our staff meeting yesterday. When she spoke I could hear the congestion in her voice.
How are you feeling? a teacher asked her.
Fine, she said.
I think she felt yucky.
I’m writing this because I don’t think I’m the only one whose heart needs to be in bed but doesn’t have the luxury.
The Lord encouraged me with this verse this morning:
Though you have made me see troubles, many and bitter, you will restore my life again; from the depths of the earth you will again bring me up. (Psalm 71:20 NIV)
My son was sick for two weeks this winter, and toward the end he started moaning, I’m never gonna feel better. I’m always gonna be on the couch feeling gross.
You won’t always be sick, I assured him. He didn’t believe me, but he wasn’t always sick. In fact, just a few weeks ago he dressed all in black and went out in the dark to play flashlight tag with some buddies.
You won’t always feel yucky, the Spirit says to us.