april first.

It is the first day of April, and I am sick.

You know what?  On the first day of March, I was sick.

My sinus infections still pop up monthly, more regular than PMS it seems.  So here I am, at the start of another month, trying to hold off until the last possible minute to buy the Dreaded Antibiotics.

This is a difficult place to be in.

At the risk of sounding like a broken record, I have taken antibiotics almost every single one of the seventeen months I’ve lived in South Asia.  And, on top of that, I pick up a random GI virus almost as often.  You’d think, with this much sickness, I’d be used to it by now.

Don’t get me wrong—it’s getting better.  On the whole it’s much, much better.  Maybe I just accidently eat gluten, because I’ll be feeling great, charging full-steam ahead, then suddenly, within a day, laid out and miserable.  It could be gluten.  It could be my dust allergies.

Whatever the cause, I’m not getting used to it.  I will never get used to it.  It always comes as a surprise, throws off our family rhythm, interrupts our schedule.  It sends me (and I am sure my husband) plunging into a fog of discouragement.

Also, my pride is hurt.  I hate being “the sick one.”  The one on our team who is most likely to miss events, to cancel outings, to postpone plans, because I’m sick.  Again.  I hate that, on Friday, Priya asked, “Madam, is there something wrong with you?  You are too thin.  You get sick too much.”  After just two months in our home, is that how she sees me?

I hate the way my sickness—minor though it is—lays me low with fatigue and headaches, makes me grouchy and hyper-sensitive and selfish.

I hate how it steals my joy.

Yesterday was a morning of tears.  Of laying in my bed while David and the kids went to a pool party with our friends.  Of feeling sorry for myself and feeling angry at God.

What on earth good does it do anyone for me to get sick all the time?  How is that sanctifying in any way?  All it does is slow us down, make David and I prone to fight more, keep me on the couch instead of at the park with my kids, interrupt my running plan.

I have a new friend.  She is just a little older than I am, and she got polio at age two because a doctor gave an accidental overdose of the polio vaccine.  Her legs are in braces and she walks with crutches.  She has a wonderful husband and a five-year-old daughter who is too cute for words.  And I wonder if she ever feels this way.  If she ever asks God, “What on earth good does it do anyone for my legs to be in braces?”

I am thinking of her a lot this weekend.  Of her smile and her quiet, friendly spirit, and how, even with a demanding full-time job and a husband and a child, she invited me—a foreigner—over to her house this week for dinner and treated me like family.  I’m thinking about how special it made me feel to be noticed, to have someone make time for me.  I’m thinking about how, somehow, in the tragedy of her story God did not make a mistake.

And he is not making a mistake in my story.

What if my illnesses aren’t an interruption to life?  What if viewing them in that way just perpetuates my frustration and anxiety?  What if I accept that, as long as I live in South Asia, regular sickness might be part of my story?

What if I humbly receive my family’s gifts of love: Judah and Amie covering me with hugs and kisses and praying for me when I’m crying on the bedroom floor, saying, “Jesus will help you, Mommy.”  My husband bringing me breakfast in bed when he should be feeding the kids and writing a Bible Study lesson and showering for church.  Priya’s constant schemes to sauté veggies and organize cupboards and cook dinner to help lighten my load.

Yesterday, laying, striving, on my bed, I suddenly had a thought: being sick is not my fault.  And it is not an accident—an oversight by a busy, distracted Father who forgets to take care of me so that I can be productive for him.  Jesus is right here with me in it.  He and I, we’re keeping company with my sinus infections, and we’ll find joy together, even here.

Do you ever find yourself thinking that small trials don’t count for good, that they’re not part of the “Consider it all joy” James talked about?  I certainly do.  I think, If I had cancer or if I had polio, now that’s a trial God could receive glory from.  But all I have are sinus infections and stomach viruses (all I have are kids with the flu, a stressful job, a strained relationship with a family member . . . ), so he can’t possibly bring good out of it, and I’m going to complain.

So.  I’m praying for grace to stop complaining.  I’m praying to start considering it all joy, knowing that the testing of my faith produces endurance.  I’m praying that God will use minor illnesses to make me more like Jesus to my husband, to my children, to my friends, to strangers.

It’s funny what I define as failure.  To me, I am failing my family when I’m laid up sick and can’t get dinner on the table.  But it occurred to me: Do my kids really care if I keep house and ministry in impeccable order but have a restless, distant heart?

Or instead, what if they could look back on their childhood and say, “My mom was sick a lot and had to stay in bed a few days every month, but she was so much fun.  She spent time with us, and was full of laughter and joy and faith in God’s goodness to her.”

That is what I’m praying for this month.