Humor

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Normally, a week has only seven days. I say, "normally" because last week was not what you would call a normal week.

According to my calculation, last week had 93 days - at least.

Not only that, but every day; and every hour of every day; and every minute of every hour of every day; and every second of every minute of every hour of every day was filled with excruciating, tortuous and delirious pain.

My survival is a triumph of human tenacity.

Of course, there is always the question, "Did I really survive?" The aftermath of my week has left me in a fog of uncertainty as to whether or not I am in the land of the living or if I have actually slipped into the land of the "undead."

If I am really writing this, and if you are really reading this, please have pity on my poor body.

I don't ask for much. Just all the sympathy you can give and a little more, thank you.

In my bed, as I was watching the news, I discovered what I needed. I needed to call in a politician. After all, they always feel my pain.

Boy, did I want them to feel my pain this week.

Not only do they feel my pain, but every politician I have ever heard of knows exactly what the solution is.

If they fully understand my pain, they would have a plan to get me out of my bed of pain. What more could a person ask?

Let me offer a word of caution. It is important to know that the higher the office sought, the more the politician knows.

And it's amazing that the ones who have all of the answers to my problems don't seem to know what to do once they are elected. I think something happens when they are sworn into office.

If I could get a running politician to run by my sick bed and tell me exactly what my problem is and how to get out of it, I would be deliriously happy.

Of course, there is always the possibility that said politician would never have voted for my flu in the first place, so I'm left shivering in my bed, with no solution except this lousy chicken soup.

The reason people are given chicken soup when they are sick, is the bad taste takes their tortured minds off the pain. I've eaten so much chicken soup I'm starting to grow feathers, which only makes the sneezing worse.

Along about Thursday (or it could have been Wednesday) the Gracious Mistress of the Parsonage looked at me and said, "Honey, (she never can remember my name) you must have the flu."

Normally I would have responded with my rapier wit, but all I could do was glare at her through bleary eyes and say, "Ah, ah, ah, ah, choooooooo."

I did grab some nearby tissues and blow my nose defiantly at her. Then I fell back into my bed, totally exhausted by the exertion.

Through the week, I used approximately 97,269 boxes of tissues.

The week was so bad and I was feeling so miserable, I watched the news just to cheer myself.

Someone once said that a recession was when my neighbor loses his job and a depression was when I lose my job. Truer words could never be spoken.

When someone else gets sick it is just a silly little cold, but when I get the flu it is serious business, you can be sure.

There are all kinds of flu going around these days. There is the Hong Kong flu, the Russian flu and the Asian flu.

None of these strains of the flu speak English and none can compare with the "Snyder-Flu."

If you ever had "Snyder-Flu," you would know exactly what I mean.

It can reduce a strong, good-looking man like myself, to a shriveling bundle of wheezes and sneezes. I don't mind one or the other, but when I wheeze and sneeze at the same time, it does something strange to my inner ear, causing little spots to appear before my watering eyes.

Once the spot got large and the buzzing in my ears got loud, then I realized it was only my wife, asking me how I felt. With a good vocabulary at my disposal, I looked at her and said nothing.

Feeling sorry for myself is not my style. I want others to feel sorry for me as well, especially when I feel as rotten as I did this past week.

Toward the end of the week, I rallied enough to read from the Bible. I just happened to stumble on a most remarkable passage in the book of Hebrews.

"Seeing then that we have a great high priest, that is passed into the heavens, Jesus the Son of God, let us hold fast our profession. For we have not a high priest which cannot be touched with the feeling of our infirmities; but was in all points tempted like as we are, yet without sin. Let us therefore come boldly unto the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy, and find grace to help in time of need." (Hebrews 4:14-16 KJV.)

Truly, God knows my pain and offers me "grace to help in the time of need." And that's nothing to sneeze at.

The Rev. James L. Snyder is pastor of the Family of God Fellowship, 1471 Pine Road in Silver Springs Shores. He lives with his wife, Martha, in Silver Springs Shores and can be contacted by calling 687-4240. Rev. Snyder's new book, "Romance Around A Parsonage Fireplace," is available. His e-mail address is [email protected]. The church web site is www.whatafellowship.com.

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