![]() “I feel like I got hit by a bus.” Ruth immediately sat up in the bed, alert and scared. “Eric got hit by a bus?!” “NO! No one got hit by a bus.” Maybe I shouldn't exaggerate so much. But in all honesty, that morning, after staying above a meeting hall in Taipei East District with my sister Ruth, it sure felt like I had been run over by something. I woke up with a heavy head, a sore throat, a number of other maladies that probably seemed much worse than they actually were, and most memorable of all, a racking cough. It's always the coughs that really get to me. I spent the rest of the day denying the fact that my body was failing me; a severe illness four years ago had left my lungs weak and prone to further illness, so for me, even a simple cough that was going around the saints one by one hit me harder than most. That evening, while beginning our journey of spending one night as a “full-timer” staying in the training center, a sister, Terri, pulled me aside. “Logan, you need to take this seriously. You need to take care of yourself. If you need anything, come to my room tonight. I don't care if it's the middle of the night—you come to my room.” ![]() “I will be okay. This happens a lot.” Her husband, Eric, chimed in: “Do you really think you're okay?” He gave me a skeptical look. I said, “No.” I thought, “Yes.” Little did Terri know that I would soon take her up on her offer. I went to sleep at about 11:30 after encouraging Ruth to move to a different room—we had turned the A/C off in hopes of subduing my lungs and I knew my coughing would only keep her up. At 12:30, I panicked. I woke up and couldn't take a breath. I was coughing and coughing, and all of the drainage had gone straight to my throat. I coughed it out, scared, but knew I would be okay. I went back to sleep. An half-hour later, I woke up again. The same thing happened, this time more severe. Once I realized I couldn't breathe, I began to try to hyperventilate, only causing the muscles around my throat to panic as well, inhibiting my breathing capabilities further. I got up, leaned on the bed, coughed, coughed, coughed, cried, coughed, then took a deep breath. I walked around in my room, trying to catch my breath and my sanity. What do I do? How could I wake a saint up at nearly 2 am, especially if I'm starting to feel better? I kept coughing. I panicked again. Lord, what is going on? I walked around. I stared at the small, empty training room and the white walls and barren feeling reminded me of my room in the ICU four years ago. Not again. I lingered outside my door, then went to Terri's floor. I knocked on the door. No response. I wanted to go back to my room. I knocked again. I had to. All I was thinking was, “Not again.” “Who is it?” I couldn't really talk, but I managed to feebly speak my own name in one breath. Although I spoke my own name, all I heard in my head was another cry: “Lord, Lord, Lord . . . Who am I? Who am I to be so careless? Lord . . . save me again.” I could imagine the horrid fluid that once filled my lungs slowly dripping back, rendering my own capabilities useless, my breath literally taken away. “Lord . . . I'm sorry.” Terri stayed up with me all night. I told her I didn't want to sleep; I was too afraid. She sat on my bed all night just so I could sleep on her shoulder. Every time I woke with a particularly scary cough, she gripped my shoulders, my hands, reminded me why I am here. I would go in and out of sleep, hearing her softly sing: His Name is Wonderful; His Name is Counselor; His Name The Mighty God, Jesus my Lord. A Child and Son is He; Eternal Father He; The Prince of Peace to me, Jesus my Lord. Praise the Creator, Jesus our Savior, Life-giving Spirit now. In spirit worship Him, Love and adore Him; His Name is Wonderful, Jesus my Lord. ![]() The next morning I didn't have any words for my sister; We didn't need any. Every time I saw her, I remembered her hands on my shoulders, on my hands—the Body enveloping me in a warm enclosure. When I saw her falling asleep at each chance and struggling to stay awake when she couldn't, I remembered her soft voice singing: “Jesus my Lord.” I went to see a doctor immediately the next day and received medicine and an inhaler to keep my airways open, and I slowly recovered. The rest of the trip, I couldn't quite shake the cough. That was the Lord's mercy. Each time I coughed, I remembered my sister, I remembered the Body, and I remembered the Lord. The Lord gave me my very breath. He can take it away. How can I not be grateful each moment for His dear breath of life, that I can enjoy Him as my full and complete nourishment? Lord, have mercy on me. I don't deserve this life. That night, I relived my life-changing experience four years ago; this time, I couldn't rely on my natural strength. The Lord allowed me to redeem that experience in this one; Now I see. I turned that night because the Body held me. “Logan, do you really think you're okay?” No. I'm not. I am so far from okay. Thank the Lord the Body allows me to see this every day. Thank the Lord that He “is the life-giving Spirit now!” Now! Lord! You mend me each moment. I have no other way. So maybe I didn't get hit by a bus (and neither did Eric), but I sure did get hit by something. The Lord couldn't have been more obvious. My life is in His hands, His breath is my breath, and the Body is the only way I can continue to hide in Him, to breath Him in each moment. I no longer struggle to breathe. I know that if I'm struggling to breathe, a deep, fresh, and real breath is only a turn away. -Logan S
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
writersSamuel C Archives
September 2014
Categories
All
|