Sickness and Sight
For now, I see spring from the sick bed. Well, the couch, really. Annoying but predictable: Almost right on schedule, my spring bug has arrived. When I look back over my journals, I see something this time of year routinely robs me of heath, strength, and charm. I hack, cough, and wheeze. Sometimes I need an antibiotic; most times, I just need space and solitude and water.
Getting sick ups my self-absorption. I know selfishness is wrong – but, aches and pains; sniffles and sneezes; coughing spasms hone all my senses to me, me, me!
So, as I climbed into bed the other night, a thought gently invaded my self-absorption: Somewhere, women who are my age are suffering with similar bugs, and they don’t have clean water, tissues, OTC aides, and chicken soup. They may not even have a bed or home!
How do thoughts like bubble up?
I’d like to think that deep inside, I am that nice a person, even sick, to think of others whose suffering is unimaginable – but I’m not.
I give credit to the One whose eyes see the whole of His creatures’ stories.
. . . O God, keep me from chronically feeling sorry
I don’t want to be a drain on another’s deep well
of compassion. . . Living with Purpose in a Worn-Out Body, page 29
Suddenly, I saw the Vicks, used tissues, and a cup of tepid tea in a new light – and with a little gratitude.