I’ve had the flu for the past three days. Bedridden.
I haven’t been sick like this in years, so my eight-year-old son has never seen me this, well, needy.
Compassionate and eager to serve, he heard me ask for a piece of toast yesterday.
“Can I take it to her, Papa?” I heard him ask. “Please?”
Apparently he was granted permission, though I didn’t hear the reply. I only heard my son’s steps bounding up the stairs. Thump-thump-thumpa-thumpa-thump.
“Mama?” he asked, bursting through the bedroom door, “do you want one or two pieces?”
“One is fine, thank you,” I whispered, trying to keep my voice low and avoid a coughing fit.
“Okay!” He took off running back down the stairs. Tromp-tromp-tromp-tromp-tromp.
A few seconds later, he returned. Thump-thump-thumpa-thumpa-thump.
“Mama? Do you want butter on your toast? Or anything else?”
“Butter would be nice,” I answered.
“Okay!” Tromp-tromp-tromp-tromp-tromp.
A minute or two later, I heard him returning: thump-thump-thumpa-thumpa-thump.
“Would you like anything else, like an apple cut up?”
“Yes, that would be wonderful.”
Tromp-tromp-tromp-tromp-tromp.
Finally, he came up the stairs slowly and carefully.
Step-pause. Step-pause. Step-pause. Step-pause.
He came through the door with a tray. On the tray, a piece of buttered toast on a plastic Pocahontas plate and a bowl filled with apple slices. It was as if he read my post at NotSoFastBook, “Home Sick? Make the Most of a Forced Rest.”
I felt like a queen.
A sick-as-a-dog queen, but a queen nonetheless.
Blessed by a servant-hearted prince.
(With support from the Belgian Wonder, serving quietly and lovingly in the background)
I’m doing better, obviously, capable of sitting upright at a laptop and tapping out relatively coherent thoughts.
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