I felt great at 11:15 on Tuesday.
I felt dreadful at 11:45 on Tuesday.
I wanted to die by 12:15 on Tuesday.
I admitted I was very sick at 3:30 on Tuesday. That’s about the time I started praying.
You know how prayers of the sick-and-at-work go…something like this:
Please make me feel better. And if You choose, in your infinite wisdom to not make me feel better, please allow all that is within me to stay within me…at least until I can ride the elevator to the basement. Six flights away.
Please, dear Lord, let me not be overcome by vomiting. Let me not experience a hiccup gone awry.
Protect my team. And protect anyone within a 20-foot radius of me. Maybe my entire office.
Prevent any germs from sticking to my computer keyboard, my phone and the door handles.
Give me strength to walk to the train. Provide a seat for me so I don’t pass out standing up. Let my husband be gracious and able to make his own dinner. Please let it be something scent-free so that I don’t throw up.
I feel as though I am walking through the valley of the shadow of death.
And in case I didn’t mention it, Lord, please make me feel better.