I have some small bacterial thing for which I am receiving prayer and an antibiotic from people who care about me and care for me and know what they are doing. The people around me that I feel responsible to are telling me to take care of myself, to trust them to care care of other things. Kids, spouse, boss, colleagues, friends.
So after a full week and a busy weekend, I stayed home Monday as a sick day. I slept through most of the morning. The antibiotic began to work. And so, by 11 am I was awake, not feeling awful. (Completely different than when I stay home with a migraine.)
And it was about then that I discovered that I was sick.
I discovered that on this day with permission from everyone to stay home and rest, with doctor’s orders to rest, with all the permission I could imagine and more mandates than I like to stay home and rest, I could not stop. I worked on some stuff for a meeting that night. I was antsy, twitchy. I was addicted to the need for some activity. I had a nagging sense that I needed to accomplish something, to make this time at home worthwhile.
I should read something important. I should pray for the many people I know with real concerns. I should go back to sleep, since that counts as acceptable activity when sick (“I just couldn’t keep my eyes open,” he said apologetically to the important book.)
What I discovered is that I am sick. What I discovered is that I am afraid of irrelevance, of being not needed. What I discovered is lies about significance that I tell myself. What I discovered is that my soul continues to needs a Healer. And that I need sabbath.