When I feel ill, all I want to do is wallow.  Just sit and groan.  It’s not a cry for attention — usually I’m alone when I make my pathetic whimpers of discomfort.  I’m feeling sorry for myself.  It’s pathetic, but at least it’s private.  As we say in my family, “If you’re going to die, die quietly.”

In the end, I always feel better — emotionally if not physically, and frequently both — if I make some sort of deliberate effort at accomplishing something.  I can read my Bible.  I can come up with a bulletin article (like this one).  Even if it is just coming up with a plan for how to catch up later on, I am not wasting my time.

Wallowing, in my mind, conjures up 2 Peter 2:22.  Souls that have found God’s truth decides to retreat back into the morass of the sinful world.  It’s not just that they find themselves distanced from God’s holiness; it’s that they have found joy there.  They like being foul.  And so they are unlikely to ever find holiness again.

I cannot afford to take joy in my misery.  I have to constantly remind myself of the task that is set in front of me, which is not going to wait for me.  I have responsibilities — parenting, husbanding, personal growing, relationship-building.  A barrier between myself and my work is a problem to be overcome, not an excuse to be exploited.  The day I give myself a pass is the day I quit on God’s plan for my life.

I’m not sick enough to embrace that future.

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