Rejoicing in Flu

I have to write this now. God willing, next week I won’t be able to—not in the same way.

An old song, Worried Man Blues by the Carter Family, starts:

It takes a worried man to sing a worried song

It takes a worried man to sing a worried song

I’m worried now but I won’t be worried long

When we are sick, troubled, or in pain, it is a full immersion experience. Not only are all our sense engaged, they are amplified above all external inputs. Promises, advice, joys, even comfort is muted in the background against the pounding of the ache filling my soul.

When someone says they have a flu, I acknowledge it’s unpleasant. Right now I have the flu, and it’s not unpleasant, it’s all consuming. I can’t sleep for the stabbing in my throat when I swallow, or the unrelenting aches in almost every joint in my body. A war is being fought inside me. My veins and nerves are the battleground. Awake, and I want to lay down and rest. Lying down, pain is present behind every eyelid and within every member.

The other day, I was working a pick ax on a rocky slope, pulling up entrenched roots of invasive trees. Today, assembling a home composter with the provided 56 screws is a two-hour project, seated on the floor, trying to focus through the aching weariness. And this is only a flu.

It’s humbling. Yesterday, given enough time and the right tools, I was ready to tackle the world. Today, while throwing every immune boosting food, capsule, spray, tea, lozenge, treatment at my body, with seeming minimal impact, I can only whimper, “Help.”

Prayers are brief, insubstantial, if at all. I’m conserving my strength to hobble once again to the bathroom.

A friend’s comment hazily emerges in the recesses of my mind. It goes something like: “Under affliction, I am closest to my real self.” At present, I am weak, helpless, needy, desperate. That’s not how I usually view myself.

God knows both Steves.

I believe the lament psalms were written while the author was suffering. At times, the heading, for example: “when he fled from Saul in the cave”, tells us that. But more so, the words and emotions conveyed are those of a worried man singing a worried song.

And that says a lot. This largest book in the Bible, the Psalms, being placed smack in the center of sacred Scriptures, contain the full range of life experiences and emotions, from jubilant dancing to drenching my bed with tears. God made sure our griefs, doubts, delights, travails, hopes, and fears would be extensively captured in pen and ink. But not just our experiences—our interactions with the Creator about our experiences.

It often seems this is where He meets us. Not that He is not present in every event of our day, but at these times is when we get most real. This is generally when we are closest to our truest self, not caught up with the fantasy of the exaltedness we feel when life is being blessed.

And so I want to underline this moment. I hope to come out of it soon. I can’t assume that I will. Others I know have suffered seemingly inconsolably for decades. But if and when I am well and as strong as a 66-year-old can be, I want to be more cognizant of my frailty and dependence—my creature status.

I want to walk more dependent, more grateful for breath and pain-free steps. I desire to be more aware of my ever-sustaining God, who walks with me every day.

RESPONSE:

• Is there pain you are currently facing?
• Is it drawing you from God or towards God?
• Find a Bible and open to the middle – the book of Psalms and read one.