Chicken soup, holy and otherwise

It has come to our house. I was afraid it would, have battled against it, refuse to consider the possibility of it's arrival, but it has made an appearance anyway.  It's the dreaded flu.  Thankfully most of us managed to get a flu shot this year so that's helpful.  It seems this years strain is strong enough that, even with a flu shot, Monkey Boy managed to come down with it.  It really wasn't that big of a deal, one night of fever and a little congestion.  The next day he was back at school.  All's well and right with the world, right?  Wrong!  Because little Scamp was the only one of my offspring to not get a flu shot he was able to catch it from his brother's short foray into the world of illness.  Now my baby is sick and I'm feeling mucho helpless.  He's got all the major players, fever, aches and pains, headache, fatigue and all around yuckiness.  Combine all that with a big dose of extreme 6 year old crankiness and you've got yourself a recipe for fun all around.  As a mom, I feel pretty helpless and very guilty.  I knew I needed to get him that shot but I put if off, then completely forgot about it.  Now he's paying for my screw up.  I know his little body is fighting it off, but it's hard to watch him be so miserable.


I remember a time another of my loved ones was trying to recover, only this time it wasn't an illness that had put him to bed.  In the summer of 2000 my husband and my Dad were working for an energy company in Wyoming.  We had moved there from Atlanta to be close to J's family and work in their business.  My folks joined us in our adventure.  They had never living in Wyoming before and were looking for a couple of years of change before settling into retirement.  After they were both sub-contracted out to an energy company out of Denver they set to work.  On June 29th, while bringing a field of new natural gas wells on line they entered a small fiberglass shed to shut down the well pump.  What they didn't know was, due to the process of purging the lines of oxygen, that little shed was full of methane gas.  One touch to, one little metal chain, changed our lives forever.  The static spark that resulted caused a massive explosion that nearly took the lives of two of the most important men in my life.  I won't go into all the details here, maybe some day, but not now.

I soon found myself caught up in the world of a burn center.  Separated from my children by a 12 hour drive, in a strange city, I found I was one that had to make the decisions, be strong, stand tall, and do what was required.  A burn ward is a surreal place, where massive injuries are inflicted in order to, ultimately, bring about final healing.  During a burn as deep as the ones my men suffered, the skin that remains slowly dies.  The body slowly rots, basically.  The dead skin has to be removed or it will bring about massive infection and a slow, painful death.  There is no easy way to accomplish this task.  Every day, twice a day, we headed for THE ROOM.  It had many names; the tank room, the debriedment room, the jiffy lube, or, as I liked to call it, Hell.  Twice a day, every day, we made our way there to spend our allotted time in the land of pain.  You see, removing the dead skin from a burn is not a painless thing to accomplish. The bandages are removed and the wounds are scrubbed. Yes, you heard me right, the open, raw wounds are scrubbed with an antibiotic soap mixture in order to remove any skin that has died.  It is, to say the very least, not an enjoyable time.

A few days into our stay at University Hospital in Salt Lake City, the doctors had something new for us, graft surgery.  It seems J's burns were so large and so deep his body would never be able to close the wounds with new skin before infection would take hold.  So, one morning they wheeled him into the or and, in his words, skinned him alive.  Skin was stripped from both legs stretching from just above the knee to the hip all the way around.  Then, it was stretched, perforated and attached to both arms, one from fingertips to shoulder, the other from wrist to shoulder.  It was then stapled into place.  The long, painful process of healing was underway.

What followed was weeks of hospital stays, more time in the tank room, more pain, more struggle, more drugs, and months of physical therapy. It was the most difficult time in our lives.  The affects were far reaching and it was years before it all receded into J's memory far enough for us all to feel completely "normal" again. It was during these difficult months God manifested in a way I had never experienced before.  I was so aware of how He was carrying us, strengthening us, comforting us.  As difficult as it all was, J and I both agree we would do it again, if only to know of Him the things we now know.  When brought to the end of ourselves we found Him waiting there for us.  I think there is little in life we could ever face that could shake the knowledge that He can bring us through.  It wasn't always painless, it wasn't often pretty, it was, usually, very messy, but He brought us through the darkness and into the light of healing and of life. 

There is a faction out there who propagate the myth that healing is a soothing, painless time.  I'm here to tell you, baby, it ain't so!  Healing can hurt!  Healing can be painful and I'm not just talking about in your physical body.  To be healed from a wound caused by grief, trauma, abuse, by unkind words or unjust actions, by betrayals and disappointments, sometimes requires more than reclining on our spiritual bed while the Lord brings us holy chicken soup and gingerale. (although, there have been times in my life where I was fortunate enough to receive such tender mercies) Healing can also require forgiving the one who wronged us, it can require choosing to look past the offense and see the heart of the one who offended.  This is not an easy thing to do, in fact, in many cases, I have found it impossible to do in my own strength.  I have had to be willing to be made willing.  I had to subject myself to the Lord for a dose of spiritual surgery to bring my heart to the place where I could do what was needed.  But just like in the physical body, healing, however it is achieved, is worth it.  How many times are we willing to settle for walking through life with joy sapping infections seeping deep into our soul because we fear the tank room of the Lord, the surgery of God, or the antibiotics of the Holy Spirit?

Please don't think I'm saying healing is always a horribly painful thing to go through. Sometimes, it is all about that spiritual bed and Holy chicken soup. It can be all about soothing oils, comforting ministrations, and the tender mercies He gives. Come to the Lord, bring your wounds and your pains. Let the oil of the Spirit soothe the painful burns life has inflicted and bring healing.  Grab the edge of that grimy band aid you've stuck to your heart and with one big yank, get rid of it!

Healing can be so many things; uncomfortable, messy, soothing, refreshing, and yes, sometimes, down right painful, but it's worth it. It's always worth it. 

Oh, and learn from my mistake. Go get yourselves and your kids a flu shot!  I'll be here doling out the chicken soup. I just don't know quite how holy it is.

Soaked in His blessings,
Spokenfor

What will I find......

When all is stripped away,
all facades, all hypocricies,
all fears and all dreams,
what is left?
When I find myself
at the end of myself
what is it that I find?
When I have gone deeper,
stretched farther,
peered more intently
into the depth that is me,
will I be surprised?
When I am face to face
with the power that moves me,
the core of who I am,
the breathe of my life,
will I stand in wonder or
cover my face in shame?
When I find myself at the end of myself
I find.....



You, Lord, only You.