The crud has come to my house.
My dear husband is coughing like a seal, taking antibiotics, using an inhaler, and chasing it all with a capful of Walgreen's Nyquil-like product every six hours. Cherry flavored. It seems Proctor & Gamble has ceased manufacturing Nyquil D--the original formula with pseudoephedrine in it.
Last night, my dear daughter started coughing. Just a little. She spent today lying on the couch, coughing a bit more often. Her cough has changed from "ahem, ahem" to the seal-like bark-cough that reminds me of when she had croup.
Here's what I find fascinating: I mentioned to Michael that we might need to take her to the doctor if her cough gets worse. (His cough needs antibiotics and inhalers.) Apparently, our girl heard my comment, decided she doesn't want to go to the doctor, and spent the rest of the evening commenting on her coughs.
"Oh. Something just went down the wrong way in my throat."
"Wow. I really swallowed weird that time."
"It happened again--it went down the wrong pipe."
What "it" was was debatable.
Every time she coughed, she made a pacifying statement--to herself or to me, I'm not sure which.
I am sure that she doesn't want to go to the doctor. Even though a visit will be simple, most likely non-invasive, and will provide the medicine she needs to feel better.
Why do we do that? Why do we fear the very actions that will make us well? Why do we run as fast as we can in the opposite direction of health?
Maybe because we don't want it to be hard. We don't want it to hurt. We don't want our healing to be messy.
Her statement of hope at the end of the evening: "Maybe I won't wake up feeling so nasty tomorrow." Which is her first admission of how badly she felt today.
I'm so glad God's mercies are new every morning!