Always at times like these, when I'm ever so close to recuperating from an illness, I remember Almanzo Wilder. You know, how he ignored the doctor's warning, got up too soon (and worked too hard) after his bout with diptheria, then suffered a stroke, losing partial use of his leg in the prime of his life.
Well, today I'm feeling ever so much better than I did on Saturday, but will I race around the house in a feverish effort to catch up on all I let go? Uh, no. I'll do a tiny bit of housework then rest. Rest some more, then do a little housework. Rest, housework, rest... yada, yada.
Oh. My. Goodness. This sickness may not have been "as unto death." but it's been rough. Thought I was gonna die a few times there, anyway.
Of course, you think some odd thoughts while you're sick, and well, here was one of mine: I recalled this line I read last week in a popular blog:
"These hard places give us the gift of intimately knowing God in ways that would never be possible in our comfort zones.”
And I thought, "Well, yeah, I've heard that for most of my life and ok, well, I suppose it's true. For some folks."
I mean, I felt so miserable that I just wanted to sleep to make the misery disappear awhile. I coughed so much that I didn't want Tom or Naomi to ask me any questions so I'd not have to answer (then cough some more). Mostly I wanted them to leave me alone--yet at the same time--read my mind and just bring me what I needed. I wanted Tom to stop coughing and watching a bazillion hours of tv so I could get some sleep.
Basically, I just wanted the whole world to, well, go away.
And yet during this sickness (and Tom's job loss and the death of Lennon) what kept returning to me over and over? All of my lovely, normal days with God. My good times with Him. The sitting with Him out on our sunny front porch or the way we whisper together in between my garden rows. The times I've almost seen Him sitting beside my bed at night, watching me sleep. All those walks we took around 1910's neighborhoods in the burbs, the coffee we've shared at Tim Horton's and the movies we've sat in the darkness watching down at the 1950's theater.
My good times with God, our sweet days together--those are what kept me lying in bed (or upon the couch) with hope rather than despair. Those are what kept me sane and fighting to become whole and healed, with a mind filled with peace again.
I don't know. I've always felt opposite of just about everyone I've ever met in all my over-50 years so perhaps this is just one more example. But whatever, oh my! How good it feels to almost feel good again!