Puking and Musing

This may not be my most intelligible post.

When one spends half the night up puking, one doesn’t always put together complete sentences.

When you go to your doctor, again, and tell him, again, that you spent another night in extreme pain, distress, malaise, cramping, and puking, and he tells you, again, that he doesn’t know what’s wrong.  But it could be…X, Y, Z, and we need to do test A, B, and C.  For insurance copays of cazillion, bazillion, and milllipillions, not to mention invasive, obtrusive, and inconclusive.  (And all of the options I had already researched and subtlely suggested.  Because I’m that annoying patient who self diagnoses.)

And then you go to your local health food store, kiddos in tow, and look up homeopathic remedies for each of the suspected maladies, buy them all, a jug of Aloe Vera Juice, and some Ginger Digest-aid tea.  Whilst chugging some of their free digestion herbal tea mix in little plastic BPA filled paper cups, straight from the free sample germo-fied caraffe.  Just to get through the store and home in one piece.
By the time you unload the groceries, feed the donkeys (too weak to walk the quarter mile and back, drive the Yukon down the path and dump feed in feeders, giving my favorite girls a few scratches.)  Make sure the kittens aren’t in the car.  Feed kittens, unload the groceries, and then decide it’s a great idea to blog.

Well….this is what you get.

But I do have a point.  And it’s a good one.  If I can just get around to it.

Yes.  Here it is.  When you spend the night puking your guts out.  Again.  And wondering if one of these nights you might be found dead on the bathroom floor…you start to evaluate things a bit more critically.  Like the cleanliness of the bathroom floor…

Oh, and those wasted minutes.  That turn into hours.  That turn into days.  That end in a wasted life.

Not that I think I’ve wasted my life.  I save lots of time by not mopping the bathroom floor, for more important endeavors.  Like Facebook playing with my children outside on a beautiful February day.  Snuggling on the couch in the sun and reading Bible stories and beautiful literature with my girls.  Dancing in the living room.  Singing the Davey Crockett theme song to 1970’s record books at the top of our lungs.  Teaching them to knit….one of these days.

But there’s other stuff.  Stuff I keep intending to do, but life keeps getting in the way.  Fostering children.  Visiting elderly friends.  Saving the world.  The big, important stuff that I’ll get around to when I have more time.  When the girls are grown and I’m retired….and too tired to save the world.

I just finished reading “In My Father’s House” by Corrie ten Boom.  I’ve always loved reading stories about these amazing heroes in history.  How they’re so brave, and self sacrificing…I’ve wondered what makes one family open their home to the Jews, knowing if they’re caught, they’ll be tortured, imprisoned, or killed, while other families lock their doors and keep their heads down?  I’ve prayed that if things get tough, I’ll be one of those strong ones.  Making a hiding place in the attic.  Smuggling babies to safety in Switzerland.  Or Canada.  Or the underground railroad to Alaska.

But this book wasn’t about the time during the war, when she was so brave and heroic.  It was about her life at home, with her family, during times of peace and prosperity and everyday Ho Hums.

The thing was, she wasn’t sitting on her thumbs, waiting for the chance to be a hero.  She was already doing heroic deeds, just without the Gestapo at her doorstep.
She set up Christian Girls Youth camps….like Girl Scouts, only with Jesus instead of cookies.  When her elderly spinster and widowed aunts died and they no longer had them to care for, they didn’t redecorate their rooms in Martha Stewart style, they added bunk beds for the German refugee children and missionary children and raised the little urchins while their families were away or unable.

Corrie said she wasn’t born at 50, when the war started and they began taking in Jews and risking their lives.  Her whole life was lived in a way that prepared her for being the hero we know and love.  (But she said it in her humble, sweet Corrie ten Boom kind of way.)

She didn’t wait for someday.  She lived each day for Christ.  There was never any question of what to do when the devil came in the form of the SS.  She had already been fighting him in the spiritual realm.  What difference did a uniform make?  She was a hero before the boots ever marched down her street.

Do you hear them?  Boots outside your door?  The devil is still on the march.  Are we in the war?

Sure, we live in a two bedroom, 1400 sq foot house.

Sure, we fight for the health of our family, milk donkeys for our children, and occasionally spend the night puking our guts out.

But we’re blessed.  Incredibly blessed.

I don’t want to stand before the Lord and make my list of excuses, and know in my heart that I could have done more.  Should have done more.  Missed out on blessings that I exchanged for excuses and tomorrows and retirement and maybe somedays.

Just a few musings after pukings.

Hold me to it, my readers and friends.  Keep me accountable.  Like it or not, don’t let me forget there’s more to be done.

Even if no one ever writes my biography or gives me a reality TV show.

There’s still time.

Let’s not waste it puking.  Or mopping the floor.  Well, maybe an occasional mopping.

Lord, help us to live each day for you Jesus.

Amen.

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