Sick and Far Away

We all know what it’s like. It’s the fever that comes over us late in the evening. We think we’ll sleep it off, but by morning it’s far worse. It’s accompanied by terrible dysentery. We still hold out for the hope that it is a 24-hour virus, only to realize it is not. Or it’s the croup that comes over our 18 month old in the night. We wake to a strange bark. What could it be? It sounds like a sick dog has made its way into our apartment. Uneasy, we suddenly realize it’s our precious toddler. Rushing into his bedroom, we see him standing up in his crib with his favorite sleep animal. He cries out “Mama” in a hoarse whisper, struggling to breathe. We gather him up and turn the shower on full steam, praying to the God who made him, who loves him.

There are thousands of other scenarios that we could describe. Often, the outcomes are wonderful. The fever and dysentery resolve; the croup is stilled and the next day we get to a pediatrician; the stitches are placed by a kind doctor who speaks our language and we tear up in gratitude. But there is a point in any of these cases where everything feels urgent and hard. Depending on where we live, we may rue limited medical care in ways we never think about when we are healthy.

These are the stories of being sick and far away. Stories where we have only our gut feelings, and Where There is No Doctor to guide us. Loneliness often overtakes us, knowing we are at the mercy of our new neighbors and friends, knowing that our moms, sisters, and doctors are far, far away.

As I write this, I’m sitting in Istanbul, Turkey. After being bathed in fog for several days, the sun has finally broken through and brightens my room. We are all sick. As my ever wise sister-in-law says, “I’m pretty sure it’s not a ‘sickness unto death,’ but it sure feels like it.” From across the room I weakly nod in agreement, my fever rising and causing chills over my body.

Sick and far away. Lonely, tearful, in pain.

And yet, sickness and disease is part of the human story. In my favorite read of the year, Prayer in the Night, author Tish Harrison Warren reminds us that for centuries priests would come pray for people and tell them to make a will. It’s not because of lack of faith. Prayer was for healing, but if healing did not come, a will was a smart way to care for those you left behind. It’s because life is what it is — a broken version of the original plan. It still holds much joy, hope, beauty, and goodness. It also holds far too much pain, sorrow, sickness, and death.

Since I was a little girl, these times of sickness have often brought help from unexpected places. At four years old, with a raging fever brought on by Malaria, a couple from my parents’ organization arrived at our house in the middle of the night to get us to care and safety. At 30 years old with the toddler with croup, a kind friend told me about an excellent pediatrician who made house calls. At 34 with a raging fever and my husband traveling, friends who had no idea I was sick showed up just at the right time.

Often, but not always. The reality is that help doesn’t always come. As thankful as I have been for help that has come, I have also witnessed the tragic deaths of community members, permanent loss because of sickness, outcomes that have made me cry out in sadness and anger, and weep for months. “Pray for healing and make a will” played out in real time. We walk through the door of permanent loss that death brings, slowly learning to embrace our existence where longing is a breath away, and we accept sadness as a permanent fixture of the gladness. Yet, sickness and death have brought me close to the one who understands pain and sickness like no other. I don’t understand this mystery, and I never will. But I lean in. I don’t know any other way to be, any other thing to do.

In this world that offers many contradictions and paradoxes for people of Christian faith, there are also some clear hard core truths. One truth that we cling to is that God loves this world: he loves his creation. He entered it through the person of Jesus to walk with us, weep with us, get sick with us, rejoice with us, and heal us. At times of sickness, I cling to my limited understanding of God’s love for this world; his awesome love for a creation that he continually runs toward, limitless in his creative ability to grab our hearts. As my fever rises, I marvel that he loved it and us enough to reconcile all of creation to himself and renew it through that reconciliation. This faith that I’ve pledged my life to points me to a greater reality than the one that I see and to the feverish, achy body that I now feel.

In her recent newsletter, “Do Good Better,” Rachel Pieh Jones writes powerful words about anemic faith vs. painful faith. Her words resonated deeply as I lay on my brother-in-law and sister-in-law’s couch groaning with sickness, wishing my faith was less anemic. I offer them here as a benediction to this piece.

“Was Jesus happy, comfortable, and safe when people wanted to throw him off the cliff? When he had no place to lay his head? When his family fled to Egypt? When he was beaten, spit on, mocked, stripped, and murdered?

This idea creates an anemic faith that cannot withstand the buffeting winds of a real human existence. It creates an idol out of God and utterly misunderstands God’s character. It provides no language for dealing with pain or fear. It leaves no room for forgiveness, for courage, for endurance, for patience, for lament, for reality. …I want to talk about painful faith. Faith that cries out, ‘This hurts! This is not justice! Where are you God?’ In my darkest moments, the times when I couldn’t breathe because of grief or fear or rage, the times I had to stop driving because I couldn’t see, had to lay down on the kitchen floor because I could no longer stand, had to hurl stones from cliffs and scream, lost my voice from crying, you know the moments. You are a human, you’ve had them too. In those moments, faith hurt. It hurt because it didn’t heal anything, it didn’t solve anything, it didn’t take away the emotions. But faith pointed me in a direction. I knew where to aim my sorrow and anger and confusion.” –Rachel Pieh Jones in “Do Good Better

Parasites and Paperwork

When it feels as though parasites have taken up permanent residency just know... this too shall pass.
When it feels as though parasites have taken up permanent residency just know… this too shall pass.

These two topics arise during the conversation at almost every gathering of foreigners: parasites and paperwork. They hold the same high level of disdain and elicit low begrudged groans.

Parasites

How many times have parasites, amoebas, or other unfriendly bugs assaulted you? How many of those nasty sicknesses can you tick on a list? Does your nearest pharmacy carry over-the-counter drugs that raise a few eyebrows?

When one of my daughters was three I went in to her room as she was waking up from her afternoon nap. Stretched out beside her on the mattress I found a worm as thick as my finger and as long as her arm. The doctor was pleased that she passed it while she slept and declared the occurrence, “Completely normal.” Yeah, right! Completely normal that an alien would implant itself in the bowels of my child, feed upon her sustenance, grow to an unearthly size and then wriggle out in an attempt to dominate our species with it’s evil machinations!

My child survived and is now a teenager; which we all know is a very special kind of alien being. We’re gonna let her stay, though, because she’s a cute and cuddly alien, not a slimy, wormy one.

Paperwork

Standing in line at the immigration office for hours and hours can really leave you feeling like an alien.
Standing in line at the immigration office for hours and hours can really leave you feeling like an alien.

First trip to pick up the reissued birth certificate: misspelled name. Resubmit. Second trip, same document: transposed numbers. Resubmit. Third trip: wrong last name. Resubmit and get reinforcements. Lawyer sets up special pick up time from a specific window at a specific time of day. I cringe, fully aware that the crowd of hundreds will perceive this line hop as preferential treatment. In the face of injustice the natives get restless.

After a few deep breaths at the back of the room I fix my eyes on the designated window. My heart beats faster as I take in the mass of people I will have to squeeze through to get to the front. I duck my head down and find pockets of space to reach my destination along the zig-zag path of  least resistance. Hope surges as I make it up to the final group of waiters. “Waiters” in that they have been waiting the longest, probably since before daybreak, for hours, to be attended. I remind myself I paid my dues and waited along with them three times. They don’t know that, but it gives me the courage to make that last push and dash up to the window.

I spit out the name of the person I need to see and the tired government worker disappears to a back room. A stealthy glance to my right reveals a sight of terror. One of the waiters broke rank! Her stocky frame barrels at me with amazing speed. I rehearse my rebuttal and apologies in Spanish in my mind. I don’t have time to say anything before I feel her pudgy elbow make full contact with my ribcage. She slams me against the window and begins to rant. The angry mob behind her all raise their voices in accusatory chants of expulsion. I feel a hand close around my arm. The person I have an appointment with grabs me through a small opening of the door. She shouts something back to the crowd. Then she shuts the door fast and leads my stunned being back to her little office closet.

Files stacked high on the tiny desk spill out onto the tiled floor. Happy ending to the story: I retrieved my kid’s perfectly correct birth certificate, in triplicate.

The trails of paperwork never end. Never. I bet you could tell me about some kind of paperwork you just finished, are in the middle of, or will soon be doing. It never ends.

Prayer

So here is my prayer for all those suffering under the weight of paperwork or parasites.

“May your lines be short and your patience long.

May you rejoice in the moments of health and know that in the moments of sickness this too shall pass… literally.

Or you’ll vomit and then you might feel better. Or you might not feel better but at least you might lose a few pounds.

May you have the gift of tongues to interpret the medical jargon on the very strong medications.

May you interpret, as well, the official wording on forms, visas, signs, documents, contracts, etc.

When the parasites come crawling and the paperwork keeps trailing may you be surrounded by people of compassion and be filled with perseverance that pushes through to find some kind of humor in it all.

Amen.”

Let’s have it. I want to hear your grossest, your most tedious, and maybe, if you can manage it, your most humorous story about parasites or paperwork. And while we’re at it why don’t we all go ahead and wash our hands just one more time, okay? Thanks!

Peace.

Image credit: Special thanks to the movie makers of ‘Men in Black’