Jesus, I Trust In You

I’m sick. My eyes bulge—pushed to their corners—pressuring sinuses.

I’m concerned. Notice I didn’t say worried. As a Christian, I’m not allowed to worry.

I pray with what little energy I have. Keep us safe Lord. My sons are scattered at college. 

I’m sick. I’ve brought it on myself. I’ve stressed, fretted. Admittedly, it is a way to take a break, to stay put. I’m glad to hole up in my heated home—under blankets, close to my lamp, books, and hot tea.

I don’t know what to do about writing. Who will want to read this scribble? Tawdry—paltry—mere cliché. Who Cares?!

I’m sick. My limbs ache. Socked feet rub together to warm, involuntarily. Then I notice I’m doing it. I get that from my mother.

I wonder about the polarization that seems to define our diversity now. It’s not a matter of race, culture, or even economic status. Our diversity splits on moral issues. If we are liberal, we are tolerant. If we are conservative, we hold many lines. Both schools of thought pay prices. One pays now in defining absolutes. This one says “That is enough, bully. You’ve had enough dessert. Daddy doesn’t have any more money. Go to your room.”

The other pays its price later. “You need food? Here are food stamps. You need birth control so you may live as you choose? Here, the taxpayer owes it to you. The politician promised you a job? Well, the market is growing, but you will have to stand in the unemployment line.” This one puts off paying the price till later.

I am sick. My jaws pop and reverberate in tension. My head, a lead ball, drops on the pillow.

I ask, am I doing all I can in providing for the future? Are we prepared as a family in case of a natural disaster? I’ve heard about the Blizzard of 93’. Homes lost power for two weeks. Folks up in these hills burned their furniture for firewood. We need a generator, I think.

I am sick. I feel yucky but enjoy languishing—in quiet—away from work—apart from noise.

Katie says I talk about everything and worry about everyone. I pray for what and who I can’t do anything else, but pray.

I’m sick. Prayers murmur listless from my lips. I am tired. I am weak. I am worn.

Jesus, The Great Healer—I trust in you.

In a few days, I am well.