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.