I've been sick recently, which has forced me to practice a skill at which I'm not particularly adept: sitting still.
It is most likely this persistent urge to keep moving which drove me to sign up for the Army Ten-Miler a couple years ago. And it was running that race which caused me to be as sick as I can ever remember being. (How's that for a convenient narrative device?)
Rather than carb-loading the night before the big race, my running buddy and I babysat a couple of sneezing children. We stayed out late, so I wasn't surprised when I woke up before the sun on the day of the Ten-Miler feeling terrible. I was also not surprised when, after the endorphins drained out of my insufficiently trained body, I ended the race feeling terrible. But 24 hours later, when my ribs were more sore from coughing than my calves were from running, I knew I was in trouble. Running that race had sent the virus from the adorable-but-germ-infested children coursing through my bloodstream and weakened any chance my immune system might have had to fight it off. I couldn't breath. I couldn't think. It was not pretty.
Unfortunately, I didn't exactly have a leisurely window of time in which to rest and recover. I was supposed to be leaving the country and heading to Panama (during the country's rainy season, because that's how I roll) with a backpack, a travel book, and three of my best friends on vacation. There was no chance I was going to miss the trip. But with less than 48 hours on the clock, I didn't even have time to schedule a doctor's appointment.
A few weeks prior, however,
in a rare moment of advanced planning, I had visited a travel doctor to pick up some malaria medication for the trip. When I told him that we were planning on visiting some remote parts of the country, he had asked me if I considered myself an "adventurous eater." I said yes, and he handed me a heavy-duty prescription for some kind of cure-all virus killer which he advised me to pack it in my suitcase.
Deciding it was my best shot, I popped the first of seven wonder-pills, said a prayer, and boarded the plane. By the time we went white water rafting through the Chiriquí Province a couple days later, I was only occasionally aware of the low rattle in my chest.
With just one pill left and a pocket full of Kleenex, we took a crowded bus down from the mountains through the jungle to the coast, where we boarded a water taxi that shuttled us through the Caribbean Sea, past the Chiquita banana factory (seriously), to the small, crowded island of
Bocas del Toro. The next day, we made a deal with a friendly but shady-looking local who owned an even smaller water taxi to shuttle us to
a remote location that I had googled. What seemed like a sketchy idea to begin with suddenly became terrifying when, as soon as we could no longer see the shore, our boat driver abruptly cut the engine and told us to be silent. I though that our journey was going to come to an abrupt end. Instead, he pointed to a pod of roughly ten dolphins playing nearby. Amazing.
When we finally arrived at
Coral Cay, it wasn't even an island: it was a clump of mangrove trees. There was no land; just a complicated root system surrounded by a boardwalk connecting a restaurant to three cabins on stilts. Magically, however, the owner had received my reservation via email and was expecting us (isn't technology amazing?). He handed each of us a snorkel, some goggles, and a sea kayak. If you didn't want to sit on the boardwalk or lie in a hammock, you basically had no choice but to be in the water.
This was completely awesome . . . for like 20 minutes.
Then I really, really wanted to go for a walk. On land.
To make matters worse, it started to rain. Hard. And we didn't realize that the "island's" only restaurant didn't serve dinner, so we were going to have to share a can of Pringles and some peanut M&Ms while playing speed Scrabble by kerosene lantern.
The merciful thing about Coral Cay, though, was that, for the first time on our entire vacation, it forced me to curl up in a hammock and REST. I didn't have a choice. I took a nap. And you know what? I stopped coughing.
(I ended up swapping a mild case of sun poisoning for the original virus, but that was a trade I was more than willing to make.)
Being sick made me a little more aware of my limitations and, consequently, a little more grateful for the peaceful quiet of those secluded cabins. Rather than causing me to go stir crazy, that night at Coral Cay became one of my most treasured memories.
When the rain stopped and the clouds parted from the night sky, we gently paddled our kayaks out into the sea to gaze up at the stars. Rarely have I seen anything so beautiful as the slow burn of those stars breaking and shimmering against the gentle, inky black waves.
I'm not particularly grateful for my cough, or for my achy muscles, or for my sore throat. But I am grateful for anything that shakes us out of our routine--out of our self-assured, independent, careless patterns--and causes us seek His face. God is so eager and able to bless us. But we have to let Him do it on His terms.
I can be grateful for weakness, because it allows His strength to shine through. (
2 Corinthians 12:9)
