Fighting minute, invisible threats--chemical odors, dander, dust mites and molds--I monitor my breathing closely. In the ominous silence, the engineer in my cerebral cortex listens for whistle stops in my chest. I lie on tenterhooks, wire-tapping my airways, as my mind races.
The tickle and wheeze grow stronger. Mucous plugs that I can't clear begin to form battle lines in my bronchioles. I take two puffs of my emergency inhaler and close my eyes. I think about passing from this world to the next. I'm a little afraid and begin to sweat. I tell myself to calm down, since tension makes the symptoms worse. I get up to make sure the phone's connected, just in case I need to dial 911. I think about the time I fell from a ladder and did dial 911 and the ambulance took 20 minutes to get to me. I realize I can't hold my breath for 20 minutes. I go to the kitchen and drink some hot lemon water and wait for the wheeze to subside. The medication and lemon water take effect. All clear. Battle fatigue. Onward, Christian soldier.
A classic religious theme declares spiritual growth often comes less from our voluntary intentions and more from measured adversity engineered by Providence. Such situations redirect our lives like a sluice gate in a millstream, reducing a wide, wild flood to a directed, purposeful current. Asthma has taught me the meaning of the "narrow gate" (Mt 7.13-14)--physically, emotionally, and spiritually.
So, how can this constriction in my chest, which has caused so much restriction in my life since my adult-onset asthma began seven years ago, be good? Speaking more broadly, how can any chronic, life-threatening condition be spiritually beneficial? Let me count the ways.
For one, I'm more empathetic. People whom I once referred to as "complainers, whiners, and soft"-people who demanded rigid routines of eating or sleeping or high maintenance comfort levels-galled me. Now, I'm one of them.
As an adventurous college student, I once slept overnight in the dank hold of a ferry crossing Cook Inlet in Alaska; now I scrutinize five-star hotels to determine if I can breathe freely in one of their rooms. As a journalist, I once braved shotgun warnings from an irate, corrupt business owner; now a mucous plug in my chest shoots panic through me. For decades, I was a globetrotting retreat leader; now I examine venues for air quality and proximity to emergency rooms. Asthma has knocked the Stoic clean out of me.
For another, I'm more sympathetic. I believe another person when they tell me their persnickety needs. "Oh, so you can't eat raw onions, but when cooked they are tolerable? Fine, I won't put them in your tuna salad. Instead, I'll whip up some la soupe à l'oignon when you come for lunch today." Nothing is too bizarre for me to accommodate--not when I have to vacuum a library book prior to reading it because a bazillion dust mites have taken residence in its paper folds.
"I'm less of a know-it-all." Read more >>
Having read about every FDA-approved asthma medication, explored everything from yoga to Chinese herbs, and paid exorbitant amounts of cash for Park Avenue homeopathy, I realize most people have probably already done their research and made their own choices about treating their ailments. I've come to respect how my fellow human beings deal with their maladies.
Fourth, having a chronic disease that is bothersome to others--my colleagues wear neither cologne nor perfume; the maintenance worker politely asks when it would be convenient to vacuum my office; I do not have dinner in homes with pets (even when they have hair, not fur); I had to ask a dear godchild not to stay overnight because of her smoking habit-has been humbling. No longer am I "a pleasure to have over." I've become a person that causes offense and demands extra fuss.
It is easier, of course, just to shrink back and avoid people and places rather than make my boundaries clear. But, being unlovable or unlovely is one of those spiritual deserts that give us a taste of being ridiculed, without comeliness, hard to bear (Is 53.3). And even a seemingly barren desert such as Death Valley, upon scrutiny, is filled with abundant life.
Which brings me to a final lesson-dependence upon and continued love for a God who gave me a bum break.
In the face of a life-threatening, chronic disease (and mine is, by far, not the worst), platitudes like "God doesn't make mistakes" seem either cruel or, in the least, heartless. Nevertheless, I believe God doesn't make mistakes and that adversity can be sent for our salvation, from a God of Love. Francis Thompson (1859-1907), in his "Hound of Heaven," expressed it nearly a century ago:
All which I took from thee I did but take,All that I've lost-the ability to travel widely, the fun (and fame!) of public speaking, even the simple pleasure of scented candles has not been taken from me "for harms," but so that I might be more dependent on God's arms. I trust that God knows the number of my days: "You saw me before I was born and scheduled each day of my life before I began to breathe. Every day was recorded in your book" [(Ps 139.16) Living Bible]. I try to surrender to that.
Not for thy harms,
But just that thou might'st seek it in My arms.
All which thy child's mistake
Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home...
Asthma, seemingly so constricting, has considerably broadened my spiritual world.