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Sickness has a way of engendering gratitude in me, even amidst grumpy grogginess.

The essential nature of the ordinary emerges from shadow as sickness sets in. The nose that breathes deeply. The throat swallowing painlessly. The cells that fight sickness. The body functioning fully.

At times I am thankful even for the sickness itself. Thankful it slows me down, compels me to release control. Thankful for the prompting to finally allow the important to triumph over the urgent.

I remember with fondness the British dramas watched in complete surrender beside my husband last winter’s stint. Sanctioned Sabbath – welcomed embrace. Yet I realize I rest in the luxury of knowing the illness will pass.

Warm blankets envelop as I lounge in pajamas all day. Hot tea’s a comfort, friends bringing fresh soups. A full night’s sleep brings a satisfied smile.

After two weeks convalescing behind walls, I’m eager for the jogs I’ve so long avoided. Fresh air sought after, simply a walk to the store.

Like the rains of Portland causing rejoicing at each glimpse of sun, common grace pours down now perceptibly. Amazing all that goes on within and around us to carry on each day.

Three weeks later I am nonetheless weary. The body is worn, the nose is raw, the sneezing continues. I mourn anew for those who face illness where healing won’t come. Perhaps they cherish the wonders I so quickly forget in the fullness of health.

“So all that was going on and we never noticed,” Thornton Wilder’s Emily says. “Oh, earth, you’re too wonderful for anybody to realize you. Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it?–every, every minute?”

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