Asthma

I had to write a note to Dr Cho earlier this week. In it, I apologized to him for missing the Monday night choir rehearsal.

I didn’t want to write the note. I didn’t want to miss the rehearsal he was leading. But it’s hard to sing when you can’t catch your breath. Or when the quietness after releasing your breath is just as often punctuated by coughing as not.

On Sunday, as I recognized the breathing patterns and the familiar wheeze in my chest, my first reaction was to blame my Creator.

Why, God? Things were going so well. You could have kept this from happening.

Before I go any further, I’d like to give some instructions to the reader. I’m not usually as bossy as all that, but you folks seem to feel sorry for me when I write about these little episodes that come along periodically. You may even worry about my well-being.

But, this time, I want you to read between the lines—and maybe between the words.

Just that morning, our pastor had spoken on the passage in John where Lazarus, a good friend of the Teacher, had died. His sisters had sent for Jesus days before, but He took His sweet time coming.

Martha wasn’t happy, exclaiming, “If you had been here, he wouldn’t have died!”

I hear my own words in hers. As if we (she or I) knew better than the Creator of all that is.

I came down to my little man-cave to write these few words tonight, but I find that, even now, my malady is likely to cut the words short.

I don’t want you to miss this.

God works through our lives—our challenges and our victories—to bring glory to His name and to draw those who are seeing and hearing to Himself. And, we can either be willing participants with Him, or moan and complain the whole way.

He wants good for us. I’ve said it before (and probably will again). His good gifts really do come down from above.

Again and again, they come down.

“‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ says the Lord. ‘They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope. In those days when you pray, I will listen. If you look for me wholeheartedly, you will find me.’“
(Jeremiah 29:11-13, NLT)

My young friend, who had a birthday today, wrote that the past year was his “Jesus year” because he was 33 years old. He told of actions he took to make it memorable as just that. It makes me happy to know men like him who are committed to living like Jesus.

But it also made me sad to remember that in that 33rd year on earth, our Savior gave His life for us. And, I was a little ashamed as I thought of my words when the first little wheeze reached my ears earlier this week.

Are you reading between the lines still?

The Bible says that for the joy that was set before Him, Jesus endured the cross.

There is great joy in the journey. There are moments of trial and near-defeat, too. During the time it’s taken me to write this, I learned of an old saint, my friend, who made his way to his eternal home tonight.

The sadness, the hardship—they’re real. Palpable, at times. I’ll stand up in a minute and make my way into the house to take a puff or two from my inhaler. Later, I’ll awake in the night when I can’t keep from coughing.

It’s what we—all of us—deal with. Life. With its astonishingly beautiful blossoms and its dreadfully painful thorns.

But ahead of us is joy. Pure joy.

With no inhalers or pills. With no tears and hurts. With no separations and no more disappointments.

We’re surrounded by a crowd of witnesses. And we’ve got each other to lean on along the way.

We’ll all sing in the choir again.

Beautiful music.

You can almost hear it from here.

“Sometimes the clearest evidence that God has not deserted you is not that you are successfully past your trial but that you are still on your feet in the middle of it.”
(Dale Ralph Davis)

“Therefore we also, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which so easily ensnares us, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith, who for the joy that was set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame, and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.”
(Hebrews 12: 1-2, NKJV)

The elephant is gone. For now, it’s gone.

These days, I’m breathing more easily. I haven’t felt the weight of breathlessness on my chest for several weeks. I haven’t had to reach for my rescue inhaler for most of that time, either.

I should be happy. Ecstatic, even.

But, I’m not.

My general practitioner’s nurse called a few weeks ago to tell me the good news. After checking with the formulary my insurance company provided, they had a long-term medication I could use to get relief.

Finally!

I had the prescription filled immediately. Within days, I was better, even confident enough to leave the inhaler at home when I went out.

I can sleep at night again. There is no longer any need to discuss the elephant in the room—the one sitting on my chest at intervals.

The elephant is gone.

So why am I not happy? Well, it seems I’ve traded one animal for another. Like the Pony Express riders, I’ve just gotten off one giant mount and thrown my leg over another.

What’s the new animal? A horse.

No wait. I meant to put that “a” into the animal’s name. Hoarse.

That’s it. No elephant; just hoarse. The medication my doctor found for me makes me hoarse. As in, “I’m a little hoarse.” All the time.

I sat in the coffee shop this morning, having been served my usual cup of drip java by the kind shop owner, and I got lost in the words on my laptop’s screen. You see, a little horse (without the a) is a pony, and the thought of changing mounts (elephant to pony) led me to visions of the Pony Express riders.

So I actually read more than I wrote this morning. Wikipedia is a wonderful thing. Or not.

I wonder if you know the Pony Express only existed for a short while? And it mostly hired teenage boys? Skinny teenage boys at that. The top weight for the riders was 125 pounds. They were in danger most of the time, with many of them dying or being wounded on the trails. The company went bankrupt and closed down only a year and a half after its inception.

I’m sorry. I’m not sure how we got here. Let me reload.

I’m hoarse. A little. It’s a side-effect of my medication. When I talk, my voice sounds gravelly. Rough.

Worse than that, I can’t sing. Well, not so much can’t as shouldn’t. I cough a lot while trying. And the sound of my voice is not as pleasing as it once was.

This isn’t the outcome I was expecting. Or wanting.

I love to sing.

But, I’ve figured out something else as I’ve considered my circumstances.

I need to breathe. Breathing is essential. And, that function is being facilitated much more completely these days. It’s a good thing.

I’m not complaining. Well, maybe just a little. But, I’m grateful for the big blessing. And, I’m attempting to be circumspect about the small inconvenience.

I did say I’ve been considering my situation. It hasn’t escaped me that my hoarseness could be considered in the same light as the thorn in the flesh the apostle for whom I’m named wrote about in 2 Corinthians 12.

“Each time he said, ‘My grace is all you need. My power works best in weakness.’ So now I am glad to boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ can work through me.”
(2 Corinthians 12:9, NLT)

When I last wrote, I mentioned an epiphany of sorts, experienced in the middle of singing at church last week. It actually occurred during one of my silences—as I waited for my voice to recover so I could be loud again.

Perhaps being silent isn’t such a bad thing, after all.

I want to sing out in the worship service. I want to be strong. It makes me feel good about myself when I am.

Oh. That’s a definition of pride, isn’t it?

Selah.

I’m not going to have to use the medication forever. I’ll sing again. But, even if I don’t, I’m grateful to have breath.

Absolutely full of thanks.

And, full of His grace, which is enough—despite my weakness.

I’ll keep the pony for now. I’m pretty sure it hurts less than the elephant when it sits down.

And besides that, the red-headed lady who raised me always told me, “Silence is golden.”

I wonder if she was right.

“Suffering is often the crucible in which our faith is tested. Those who successfully come through the furnace of affliction are the ones who emerge like gold tried in the fire.”
(from “Unto the Hills”, Billy Graham)

“Nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
(Romans 8:39, KJV)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Breathing Between the Heartbeats

A New Pony