February 9, 2009 Trials,Tribulations & MRSA

The year we lived in India, three-year-old Adam burned his arm on a hot iron--nothing too serious at the start. Then a boil appeared near the burn, which I attributed to the poor air and water quality. The six of us slept on mats on the floor, Adam by my side. Soon I developed a boil as well. Mine would clear, Adam would get another. His would clear, and then mine would erupt, and so on for months. Eventually everyone in the family had had at least one boil, mine for some reason being the largest, most numerous, and causing the most problems.

In terms of severity, I had come off relatively easy by comparison to Job (I never scraped myself with a broken shard of pottery—tempting, but no). In number, however, we were too close for comfort. Literally from my head to my feet, small painful boils—a noxious staph infection—popped up with alarming regularity. A round of antibiotics seemed to take care of them until we returned to the United States. Months later, perhaps a year even, a boil appeared on one of the most painful areas possible—my hand. A nurse urged me to get treatment, warning that with little room for the infection to spread, I could otherwise lose the hand altogether. Yuck!
When one round of medicine didn’t knock the latest outbreak out of my system, a dermatologist put me on long-term antibiotics. Three months of that and nary a boil showed up since.

Until last week. High enough on a leg that sitting became very. Very. Uncomfortable. My nurse practitioner said she’d treat it like MRSA, an antibiotic-resistant strain of staph. No big deal—except that my infant brother died from a staph infection forty-nine years ago. Except that my job calls for me to sit for several hours a day. Except that David was counting on me to help him with renovations when I came home in the afternoons. Except that I felt awful, given to chills and fits of tears. I took a day off and tried to remain horizontal, holding hot compresses to my leg, generally feeling sorry for myself, and watching more television than I’ve ever done in my life.

I also revisited the poetry of Asaph (Psalms 73-83) in my state of woe. What an encourager he must have been. Over and over he questions the state of the world, the seeming success of the ungodly, the desperation of his own people, yet inevitably there comes a line something like “But you, oh God…” followed by accounts of his glory and might and faithfulness.

Trials come and go. Western Christianity has been spoiled and lulled into complacency by the idea that we alone are immune to the tribulation others endure today around the globe. We’ve bought into a kind of “Calgon Christianity”—Jesus, take me away! Take me away from ugliness, pain, ….discipline.

According to Hebrews 12:11, all discipline seems painful at the time but “later it yields the peaceful fruit of righteousness to those who have been trained by it” (Hebrews 12:11, NRSV; emphasis mine).Apparently we can fail to receive the intended benefit if we fail to receive the training. Not a good idea.

If there’s a lesson to be learned from the painful red place on my leg, I definitely want to get it the first time around the ole’ discipline mountain. Do I want every trace of sin out of my life as badly as I want to be rid of all traces of this infection? Does it serve as a reminder to prevent becoming so physically drained that my body is unable to fight germs? Or perhaps, like Asaph, I need to remember that despite the things we must endure in this life (and a boil certainly isn’t the worst thing any of us has faced) “But you, oh God…”

He is still God. Still on the throne. Still awesome in power and holiness. Still in control. Still my King and Lord.