It had been a week.
I had the privilege of having some chats with a couple of colleagues, and I had been emerging from the rubble of a common cold.
And part of the problem when you have a cold is that you can give in to the very persuasive temptation of ‘pushing through’. It’s only a cold after all. Nothing, a few tissues, a hot toddy and some paracetamol wouldn’t sort out.
But what if my colleagues had phoned, sounding heavily nasal and like microwaved death. What advice would I give?
Turn on your electric blanket, switch on the answering machine and leave the mobile under a pillow in the spare room at the bottom of the cupboard. Do not emerge until you have a clean bill of health signed off by three independent medical experts.
I took the middle course and did the bare minimum, but also decided that an old man’s nap was just what the doctor ordered. I did take over-the-counter medicine and gave a wide berth to the red ned while I was ingesting prescribed medicine.
Odd, isn’t it? I know exactly the right and wise advice for my colleagues and if it applies to them… then it certainly applies to me. But why am I so hesitant to act determinedly on own advice?
A sense of pride of my own importance? That the Church of God would unravel if I caught a few zzz’s.
The Church of God might actually be in better shape, if I was in better shape. I am certainly more astute, more caring, more articulate if I am not trying to operate from behind the haze of bleary eyes and feeling wretched.
I must listen more attentively to that still small voice. Him who knows me better than I know myself. The Master physician.