Am I Meant to Suffer?

Looking back, I still don’t know why I did what I did. But … maybe that’s what God wanted me to do?

The day after the Fourth of July, my caregiver suddenly and obviously had a very bad cough, deep in the chest and full of phlegm. I asked her where the cough came from, and she said that she thought it was from a Fourth of July campfire because the smoke was blowing right at her. This was reasonable, and I understand why she believed it. But I also believed it — and this I don’t understand.

I’m always very cautious around anyone who coughs because of my compromised respiratory system. If my caregivers get exposed to someone with a cold, they wear a mask. If they have a little sniffle, they wear a mask. If they have a sore throat or a cough, they stay home. However, when I hired my new caregiver this spring (a woman who is an excellent caregiver and whom I like very much), I neglected to tell her anything about these virus precautions.

Why didn’t I tell her?

Letting Fear Rule Me Again

I’m afraid the answer may be fear of men. I say that in a kind of biblical way, meaning the opposite of a fear of God. With everybody’s varying opinions over masks during the worst of Covid, and some people’s reactions to wearing a mask being unbelievably negative, I seem to have built up a hesitancy to ask people to wear one. I know they’re not comfortable to wear, but they’ve been used in clinical settings way, way before Covid was ever a thing.

When I heard the terrible cough, I should have asked her right away to put a mask on, as we have plenty in the house. But I did not. Was I afraid what her reaction to mask wearing would be? Was I afraid that she wouldn’t like me? I should not have been afraid. I should have done what I always do, what is best for me and my care. But I put my desire to please humans over my necessity to protect the gift of life that God has given to me.

It’s not like I didn’t do anything. At night, I gargled with my mouthwash, which contains alcohol, and which I heard was good at cutting down germs in the throat. Usually, however, I gargled with saltwater, gargling vigorously and often whenever I have been exposed to a virus or even potentially exposed to a virus. She was taking care of me again on the next day, the sixth, but I don’t remember hearing the cough. When she came back on the eighth, the cough was back in full force. And now I was worried. I prayed to God that I would not catch that cough. Before my caregiver came back on the 10^th, I texted her and asked her if it would be all right if she wore a mask. I explained to her the reasons. She said, “Of course.”

She seemed rather comfortable in it and said that she now knew that if she even felt the slightest tickle she would just put a mask on before coming to take care of me. She is a good person. Why did I not ask her sooner? I made her wear a mask to finish out the week, making it more than a week since her first symptom. I assumed she would not be contagious after that.

The wonderful news was that, after two weeks from exposure, I did not feel sick at all. No tickle, no cough. This seemed miraculous to me because I did nothing that I usually did to prevent it. And you have to understand that my caregivers spend 3 to 4 hours within 2 feet of my face, sometimes closer. Easy to catch something. But I didn’t! And I thanked God for sparing me. I’m sure that in my prayer I promised that I would both inwardly and outwardly rejoice for the gift, and that I would use the time well, in service to God. Writing the book, mostly. But, to be honest, I did not really rejoice openly and I did not take the miracle to my heart. And I didn’t work on the book. Of course, I don’t know if God had granted me a miracle at all. But if he had, I misused it terribly. I neglected it and it left.

The seemingly bad news is that, on July 21, it was clear that I caught the virus. And oh, what a terrible chest cold it was. (I seem to still be clearing up the remnants even now.) I learned many things during my ordeal and gained insights. The time of suffering seems to have also been a time of growth. And this leads me to ask the question… Is there value in suffering?

God Knows Me

Maybe, just maybe… Maybe I needed to get sick in order to let Him through to do His work in me.

I’ve been wasting too much time on projects that anyone else could do, neglecting the writing that only I can do. I believe that God plans specific missions for each individual person, knowing that one particular person is best for one particular project. There are things that you can do, dear reader, that I cannot. And there are things that I can do that you cannot.

Telling my story is something that only I can do.

If there is something truly valuable in my story, then perhaps any means to get me to tell that story are good… are beautiful … are holy.

Maybe God didn’t just allow me to get sick — maybe God wanted me to get sick. Maybe God knew that that was the only way to wake me up and get me going where I need to go. If so, then I need to apologize to God (again) for not letting Him work through me. I need to apologize for my procrastination and my laziness. To this day, three months after catching that virus, I’m still finding other things to do, things that other people could do, instead of doing what I am supposed to be doing.

Writing.

In the last two weeks, I’ve had digestive problems, including the day before I am posting this when I seem to have had acid reflux so bad that I inhaled some of the bile and had to do my old coughing for hours thing again. Heavy sigh. And it now feels like these little illnesses are like the Prophets that God sent to get His people back to where they are supposed to be — little reminders that time is precious and that I’m wasting time when I am not writing.

So, I guess what I’m wondering is…

Does suffering make us wiser? I believe that it can. But it’s not a guarantee.

Does God give us suffering to make us wiser? (That’s the big question.) And my answer is, well … maybe?

I’m sure that I’ll be exploring this question again if God allows me the time. And God has allowed me plenty of time, much more time than I ever imagined given my prognosis of dying before the age of 13. The real question for God might be what I’m going to do with that time.

Write, Christina. Write.

© 2024 Christina Chase

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Feature Photo by Matt Marzorati on Unsplash