I woke up a little before four in the morning—nauseated. “Maybe I’m just too tired,” I thought, and rolled over and tried to get back to sleep. That bolt of shining optimism was sadly disconnected from reality. The initial rumblings of my unhappy stomach were preparation for the full-force of a twenty-four-hour bug that had already claimed several victims in our family.

I’d do quite a bit to avoid exposure to stomach flu. Sure, my immune system could stand up to the contagion, but often, exposure equals illness. When the sickness strikes in our own home, though, there’s not a whole lot we can do. I assiduously avoid contact (might even be called unfeeling at times) and I wash my hands frequently—and try to not use the family towel to dry. But it seems as though some bugs are set to seek and destroy.

This one leveled me. Literally. Prone. Aside from frequent trips to the bathroom, I was flat on my back in bed. It’s been a long time since I spent a day in bed, since I did nothing but close my eyes and hold on, waiting for sickness to pass.

I drifted in and out of consciousness, sleeping, waking, and half-dreaming through both. Ephemeral thoughts flitted through my mind—gauzy, unformed images and ideas and words, not disciplined by ordinary requirements to “get things done.”

Really, there wasn’t much I could do. I listened to a sermon, but fell asleep somewhere before it concluded. I didn’t want to read or listen to music or wrestle through problems and questions of life. In fact, I didn’t want to do anything but lie very still and try to stay as warm and comfortable as I possible. I kept an old heating pad, turned on high, across my stomach, under my back, or at my feet. Melissa asked if I wanted to see the poplar trees blowing in the wind out beyond the barn. No, I preferred to keep my eyes shut most of the time, even when I was awake.

And all the while, I waded in and out of the shallows of thought. My mind was like an overstretched rubber band that’s been relaxed. The tension of a thousand concerns, the stress of daily burdens that weigh heavily on my soul, was gone. Thoughts were limp, lacking the edge of intelligence—even the sharpness of care—that characterizes typical life.

Through the mist, I heard a beloved old refrain:

Rest. Yes, that was what I was looking for. Nothing more. Stillness. Quietness. Worrisome ogres fled before the onslaught of the flu. Dictatorial to-do lists couldn’t lift their heads above waves of nausea.

I woke this morning feeling like a new man. Weak, but alive. And with the return of health came the sharpness of all my concerns.

Why does it take something as dramatic as stomach flu to reorient my priorities? Why not live in Jesus' rest all the time?

I’m not looking for a foggy escape from reality or a dullness that can’t see danger before it’s too late. I’m not talking about the bliss of ignorance or about unfounded optimism. I need the rest that’s built on truth and greater Truth, the rest that looks trouble squarely in the eye, and sees, just beyond that tyrant, the Master whose serene control is working everything for good.

Even stomach flu. And even health.

Amy Carmichael, herself no stranger to trouble, wrote:

Thou art the Lord who slept upon the pillow,
Thou art the Lord who soothed the furious sea,
What matters beating wind and tossing billow
If only we are in the boat with Thee?

Hold us quiet through the age-long minute
While Thou art silent and the wind is shrill :
Can the boat sink while Thou, dear Lord, are in it;
Can the heart faint that waiteth on Thy will?

Yesterday’s bout of flu was a gift. Not because I like the flu any better for having experienced it, but because it shook the world of ordinary things and showed me my impotence. Better still, it reminds me of the omnipotence of the One who calls me to His rest amid the tossing billows—from truth to greater Truth.

When we finish an edition of the North Star Journal, our family newsletter, it doesn’t take me long to start dreaming about the next one. Trouble is that my dreams are sometimes my children’s nightmares.

For this edition, I got the brilliant idea that we could get more out of writing by reading our articles onto the computer. That would give us a great speech class and offer our readers something fresh and different, a chance to get to know our voices as well as our pens.

I nearly had a revolt.

The project was both more time-consuming and more detested than I imagined. To say we hit roadblocks is an understatement. We stuck with it until each contributing editor (read that, “every child in the family”) had recorded their speech. Then I altered the rules and let them choose whether they wanted their article in audio or visual format.

We ended up publishing some articles one way and some another. Maybe the diversity is better anyway . . .

So, between normal and new challenges to getting the NSJ out, we’ve finally published the December — and January — and February edition of our family update.

Later today we’ll celebrate the completion of this edition with a mocha milkshake all around. And maybe we’ll dream about what to write next . . .

Click here to visit the latest North Star Journal

© February 2012 by Robert G. Robbins

I woke one morning heavy with the remembrance of failures, tormented by questions, doubts about the past. Shadows of things I confronted and answered long ago stalked my mind, and like shadows, were impossible to wrestle to the ground. Every turn of thought cast the shadows in despairing new directions. Whirling to meet them, I merely dizzied myself with the effort.

I felt confused and disoriented and disheartened. The silt of years covered a delta of contradictory thoughts making it virtually impossible to inspect the original streambed of my inner workings. Had I been right? Was the problem fully resolved?

I thought and prayed. Resisting Satan and drawing near to my God, a Word whispered above the wind of accusation: “. . . if the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed.” Jesus words, recorded by John—memorized many years ago and ministered by the Spirit of God in my moment of need. I grasped the truth with both hands, clinging to this pillar that didn’t sway amid the tempest of my inner world.

“Free indeed,” Jesus said. On what basis? Because I have always done what’s right? Because I’ve sailed through rough seas without sustaining damage? Because I’ve triumphed over every temptation and leapt every wall of doubt?

No, free through the Son alone. If He has set me free, then I am free—really free. The One who knows my words before I speak them, my actions before I do them, my thoughts before I think them—this One understands me better than I understand myself. And knowing me—even all the bad and ugly—He loves me. And loving me—in spite of me—He sets me free.

I’m not shackled to real or imagined sins of years gone by, and I don’t need to live as though I am. I’m not handcuffed to my own reasoning, locked in the graceless darkness of fallen imagination. I’m free, and when I open my eyes to my Emancipator I find there’s no condemnation in Him. He is all grace and no judgment to me.

As I pondered, an old song found it’s way through the corridors of my mind, poured through my lips, and triumphed over doubt’s dissenting voice:

Jesus, Thy blood and righteousness
My beauty are, my glorious dress;
Midst flaming worlds in these arrayed,
With joy shall I lift up my head.
—von Zinzendorf

Joy indeed because I’m free—free indeed through the Son alone.