Minutes of Meetings with God
and with Myself

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Fever ...

One of those things that I most dread might happen, actually occurred. I woke up early one recent morning with a high fever; it was right at 104 degrees. A high fever is particularly worrisome for me because I don't have a spleen. A decade ago, it had been torn up in a car accident and had to be removed.

Mostly, being without a spleen, doesn't make a huge difference in the quality of my life. However, the condition has weakened my immune system and puts me in the "high risk" category for complications when I get any kind of infection. So, whenever I feel bad, I have to take my temperature; and, if my temperature is at 100 or above, at the very least it means I have to call the doctor. If my temperature is above 102, that means a trip to the emergency room.

This fever, at 5 A.M., obviously meant a trip to the emergency room. I felt really badly, mostly because I had to wake my wife from a very sound and restful sleep, one that I knew she really needed. I told her that I needed to go to the hospital, and that (because my fever was so high) I needed her to drive me there. It took more than a little minute for it all to sink in for both of us. Soon we were out the door, in the car, and on our way to the emergency room.

Most often, in past, similar situations, my fevers were dealt with simply by the doctor prescribing a course of antibiotics and sending me home. It wouldn't happen that way this time.

Two weeks previously, I'd had a kidney stone removed. It was a comparatively simple procedure, part of which was the insertion of a stint that was to make sure my plumbing didn't get clogged up during the healing process. The stint had done it's job, but it had also proved to be very irritating. I had taken a course of strong oral antibiotics after the surgery to ward off infection. I developed an infection and a fever, anyway.

Nothing made sense. I thought I had done everything I was supposed to do in order to get better, but now I was getting worse. And , nothing (not anything I can think of) becomes more frustrating for me than doing something to make a situation better, only to have matters deteriorate either because of or in spite of my efforts at improvement. Oh, how I hate those moments when the harder I try the worse things get.

After a quick round of lab tests, the emergency room physician wanted to give me IV antibiotics. Of course, it took 3 or 4 tries to get a vein. Finally, the IV was started and so were the broad spectrum anti-biotics that would fight whatever infection I had.

A bit later, the same physician returned to say that I needed to be admitted me to a hospital, but that hospital (the one in whose emergency room I was being treated), and none of the nearby hospitals had an empty bed for me. The closest available bed was some 50 miles away in Royal Oak, Michigan. There was some discussion as to whether I had to be transported by ambulance. Thankfully, it was decided my wife could drive me to the other hospital.

The nurse disconnected my IV line; I got dressed, got copies of my medical reports and CT scan and walked out to the car; and, we headed for Royal Oak. On the way we made a quick stop at a fast food restaurant to get something to eat. I wasn't really hungry, so I had a glass of lemonade.

In Royal Oak, we went to the emergency room of the hospital, where, basically, I started the whole procedure over from scratch. Finally, at 9:30 P.M., I was in a hospital bed, receiving more IV antibiotics.I had been some 15 hours in emergency rooms. I was very tired. Because I had not expected to be admitted to the hospital, I had nothing with me but the clothes I was wearing. What a relief it was when we realized that my wife's sister lives only a few miles from the hospital and she was able to go there to stay the night. When my wife left, she took my clothes and everything so they could be laundered. I was reduced to wearing only a hospital gown.

I would like to say that I had been immensely prayerful during the whole day while everything was happening. But, I found it difficult to pray. Everything going on both in and around me made it really difficult to focus. Any time I managed to spend with God was pretty disjoint and distracted. I found myself thinking that I ought to be praying, but actually doing so became something elusive. Even my night-time prayers were much abbreviated.

The next morning, one of the hospital chaplains stopped by. We had a very good conversation and prayer. He rather quickly arranged for me to get a New Testament so that I could do my morning devotional. I decided I would read the Gospel of Mark while I was there in the hospital.

I read the first two chapters of that Gospel. Chapter 2 begins with the story of the friends who carry the sick man to Jesus to be healed, but who have to dig through the roof of the house where Jesus was teaching in order to reach him.

"A few days later, when Jesus again entered Capernaum, the people heard that he had come home. So many gathered that there was no room left, not even outside the door, and he preached the word to them. Some men came, bringing to him a paralytic, carried by four of them. Since they could not get him to Jesus because of the crowd, they made an opening in the roof above Jesus and, after digging through it, lowered the mat the paralyzed man was lying on." (Mark 2:1-4 NIV)

It was then that it struck me. Even when I could not manage to be prayerful on my own, even when I could not muster enough to bring myself to Jesus for healing, there were people (both family and friends) who were carrying me to Jesus in prayer so that I could be healed.

That was a very sobering realization. It was a very humbling realization. It was something that drove home that when we are sick, it is our spirits as well as our bodies that need healing. Our spirits as well as our bodies are in need of a new start, of being born again.

That realization was somehing that renewed my sense of the power and importance of praying for others. It made me start thinking once again about prayer. So often, even without being conscious of doing it, prayer becomes a way of trying to fix people or of making people over the way we want them to be. Prayer, intercessory prayer, most simply is taking people to Jesus (even if that means doing the equivalent of tearing up the roof) so that between them, they can work out what needs to happen.

That realization motivated me to begin listening so, hopefully, I would hear Jesus say to me, as he had to the one let down through the roof of that house … "Son, your sins are forgiven [your spirit is healed] … take up your bed and walk [your body is healed]"

Although they checked out a number of possibilities, the doctors weren't able to sort out just what had caused my fever. I sensed that, somehow, the roof had been torn off the house, I'd been brought into the presence of the Great Physician by those who cared for and prayed for me. That made all the difference.