I spent last week in the hospital.
I thought I was going in for a quick out-patient surgery
to repair my torn rotator cuff.
That didn’t happen…
Instead, I nearly crashed on the table before they even
put me under. I turned blue. I couldn’t breathe.
I thought I was dying.
My surgeon canceled the surgery and I was admitted to the
Cardiac department to determine what had gone wrong—and to get my heart rate
back down to normal.
In my racing heart, I whined.
I whined a lot that week. I hate having tests done that
hurt, make me uncomfortable, that require a second IV line with a larger needle
right in the bend of my only good arm.
I whined because they performed a nerve block on my right
shoulder before surgery was canceled that rendered my entire arm a dead,
lifeless, dangling appendage that served no purpose but to receive all the
injections they kept stabbing me with.
I griped about the lack of food or water I was allowed –
because of all the tests they had to perform. Then I griped about the food they
brought me. Apparently, the dietitian in the hospital has no concept of “a
restricted diet” for diabetics or heart patients.
I complained that I couldn’t sleep because I was so
uncomfortable and when I attempted to lay my head down to rest, I couldn’t
breathe again.
I grumbled when every few minutes I had to unhook my
oxygen and attempt to make it to the bathroom AGAIN because they shot me full
of Lasix. It didn’t help that I only had one arm, with two IVs in the wrong
places for the task at hand, and one dead arm that merely dangled uselessly and
in the way.
And then…
This morning I awoke thinking about Jesus on that Good
Friday so long ago.
My temporary and minor pain in no way compares to his.
My discomfort and bruises from needle pricks were minimal
compared to the wounds he received from repeated flogging with metal barbs that
cut into his flesh.
My pain can never compare to the pain he must have felt
as he took on the sin of the world.
My damaged shoulder, dead arm, and needle-stabbed arms in
no way compare to his journey through the streets carrying the cross he would
soon be nailed to.
So, today I cry. Not out of pity for myself, but out of
shame for even suggesting that a couple of weeks of discomfort can compare with
the supreme sacrifice Christ made to give me eternal life.
It’s not a sad story, though, because his death was not
in vain.
Yes, my friends, Sunday is coming.
No matter what we experience in life, our Sunday is
coming. And with it comes healing and life for eternity.
For by his stripes, we are healed.
