We’re proud that we don’t crawl around like animals, that we walk upright on two legs. We like to stand tall and think lofty thoughts. We may walk around proudly, as though we’re kings and queens, but it only takes a fever to land us flat on our backs.
When God came to breathe into man the breath of life, God found Adam flat on the ground. When God takes away that breath, he again lays us flat on our beds. A sick bed is like a grave, and all that the patient says there are but variations of his own epitaph. Here I lie still as if in a grave, yet my resurrection is still to come.
My God, my Jesus, I come to you now like a child, weak and willing. Yet I even find that difficult. How can I come to you, God, when I’m stuck in this bed? I can’t even attend church anymore. You are among your people in the congregation, and I am here alone. Jesus, those you healed here on earth were all brought to you, or you went to them. But I can’t go anywhere. I’m flat on my back in this bed. My friends bring me, in their prayers, to the church. So, please Lord, when my friends return to visit me, join them by your Spirit.
Lord, I know you have given me work to do. But I can’t do anything when I am so ill. No one can even hear me praise you! I know you could wondrously heal me, but instead you have your own ways—the same way which you gave to your Son.
For now, I am suspended between heaven and earth. I am not in heaven because I still have this earthly body, and I am not in the earth because a heavenly soul keeps me going. I trust that you will make something good come out of this. I trust too that, if I become even sicker, you will ready me and take me to be with you.
Mighty and merciful God, you are still my foundation. You’ve taken me down from my high, proud position, but you haven’t left me. O God, my God, as I can, I come to you by embracing your coming to me. I come trusting in your promise to David, that you will prepare my bed in my sickness. So that where ever I turn, I turn to you. Amen.