When I was in the ninth grade, I had my first experience with the flu. I'm not sure which strain I had, but it was the one that made you feel as if you had to strain to survive. The only thing that came easy and often about this episode of the flu was projectile vomiting, which I found most interesting.
All young boys grow up with a natural fascination with distances, especially as it relates to how far a lad could cast his bladder contents. Projectile vomiting was entirely new to me, but I found that I was particularly gifted when it came to tossing my proverbial cookies across the room. My mother's language indicated that she had no appreciation for my new-found talents and that she perceived them more as a curse.
Having survived my harrowing experience with the flu, I mostly forgot about the whole affair as the years passed, until 2020 rolled around. As February was leaping to a close, I finished a productive day of interviews with a strange tickle in my throat that quickly accelerated to a cough that seemed to originate in my toenails. Projectile vomiting with this cough could have gotten me into the Olympics, for sure, though I'm not sure what category that would have been placed in.
My back was less impressed with the matter and gave way two days later as a result of the incessant heaving. The resulting spasms were something I would love to forget. As it turned out, all this medical mayhem was the result of my second round with the flu.
It came as no surprise to me that there are no chiropractors in this hemisphere who will see you while you have the flu. Where have all the courageous servants of humanity gone when you need them? I do know where two of them are. They are Madison County EMTs.
I met these two illustrious gentlemen while in the throes of desperation. Not entirely sure what was wrong with me, but entirely sure that my back wasn't letting me out of my recliner any time soon, I resorted to calling these frontline heroes to escort me to the hospital. They did so by first lifting me out of my recliner without disturbing my back, which is no small feat.
Just when I thought I was beyond further impressing, the medic yielding the IV needle did his deed without giving me even a prick of pain. When I asked him how that was possible, he semi-humbly responded that he could also do that while rolling 90 miles an hour down a bumpy road.
Once safely in the confines of the emergency room, the real fun began. Some well-meaning nurse came to my bedside with swabs that were roughly twelve feet long and proceeded to insert them thirteen feet up both of my whimpering nostrils. Once they were safely dislodged from my cerebral cortex, she announced that it wasn't done right unless it hurt. She deserves a medal for doing it right. It was at this point I discovered I had the flu.
Following that good news, I received a shot for my back pain that was expected to last for most of the weekend. Apparently this particular weekend was only 45 minutes long, but at least I made it back to my recliner, where I would remain for the next several days until the flu made its exit. I was never bored, however, because the slightest twitch in the wrong direction would induce a spasm that made breathing seem like a luxury.
Going through numerous physical difficulties at one time gives you a great opportunity to expand your horizons and become resourceful in the fine art of survival. Sometimes, this creativity breeds regret, as it did for me. I developed a technique for getting out of a chair while my spasms were drawing me ever closer to the throne of God and it worked pretty well.
What I didn't know was that my grand ideas were also greatly increasing the stress on my left foot, which quickly notified me of the problem by way of a demon-child named Plantars Faciitis. This is a fancy way of saying that your foot would now rather watch endless reruns of C-SPAN, than to ever touch the floor again.
As my recovery continues, I am reminded that Jesus promised that storms would rise against us, attempting to completely destroy our lives. He promised this. He doesn't take any credit for causing it, because He doesn't. He does promise to stay closer than a brother through whatever comes our way.
What determines how we weather such events is what we cling to while the angry gales are howling around us. Religion will be of no help. "Positive energy" will do even less. Determination will get you only so far before you find the end of the rope.
What must happen is for Jesus to show up and whisper, "Peace, be still!" When that happens, the storm takes a beating and releases you because it has no choice. I've noticed that Jesus rarely rushes to do this. That's probably because suffering causes the heart to soften or harden, again depending on what one is clinging to.
I've been in anguish several times. Each occasion was horrible beyond words and each time I got to know myself and my God better because I survived and He showed up and delivered me. Sometimes, He delivered me from me, which is a freedom greatly treasured but one that is costly to obtain.
It's costly because that freedom beckons me to no longer live for me or even being comfortably Christian. Jesus loves us so much that He wants to provide an entirely different life to be enjoyed by us, one that is of His choosing and making. Despite what you may believe, this doesn't just happen. You have to choose that and submit to it by the hour to reap the benefits.
For me, it has often been suffering that reminds me that this life isn't all that we gloriously imagine it to be. It is selfish and flawed, destined for weakness and a return to dust. And that's the glory of it, that God wishes to deposit His treasure in our earthen vessels so that others can see that Jesus is our only hope and that He is more than enough for whatever hits us.
We are to be persuaded that neither death nor life nor pestilence or virus or any created thing can ever separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus. We can only be persuaded of this as we open our ears and hearts to love the life God offers over the one we created on our own.
Failure to find His life in us is a fate worse than any flu, spasm or pain could ever render, which is why He stands at our doors during every season of life and knocks, pleading for entrance so that we can know His peace, be still and live.