I awoke, shivering uncontrollably. It was still dark, and I couldn’t read the time on my watch. I wrapped my blankets tighter around me and tried to go back to sleep. It wasn’t until the morning light roused me from my fitful slumber that I realized I had, indeed, drifted back to sleep. With concerted effort, I lifted my pounding head. As if in scripted synchrony, my roommate lifted hers. Our eyes met. We groaned, and simultaneously dropped our heads back onto our pillows. We laughed at our pitiful state. And then we groaned again. We finally and begrudgingly consented to acknowledge that Sunday had indeed arrived and that we would have to face the new day. And so we went about getting ready for worship and breakfast. After a short, much-needed prayer session, we joined the rest of the group.
After class, I asked our group leader/stand-in-mom, Stephanie, if she had anything that would help with a headache and/or fever. She kindly provided something that was to do the trick, and by the time I walked to the laundry shop, it had kicked in and I was feeling much better. So much better, in fact, that I took off my sweatshirt and relinquished it to be washed with the rest of my laundry.
By the time I got back to the hotel, I had almost forgotten that I was ill. The only lingering reminders were fatigue and a slight burning around my eyes. And so, grateful for strength and feelings of wellness, I eagerly put my efforts into that evening’s sermon. It was the first night that we were using appeal cards. I was nervous and excited. The sermon was an incredibly powerful one about salvation through Christ. The appeal story was a gripping account of Martin Luther’s dream (“Move your hand!”). The more I practiced it, the more excited I grew. I could not wait to preach this sermon!
By the time evening rolled around, my headache was back, but I wasn’t worried. I’d had a throbbing headache off and on since Friday, but when I got up to preach, it had always disappeared. So I knew I didn’t have anything to worry about. I got to my site and went through that evening’s checklist. Appeal cards? Check. (Hooray! They had warned us that some sites may not have them.) Appeal song singers? Check. Appeal song that they knew? After some scrambling for a hymnal, check. Extension cord yet? (I’d been asking each night for one.) Check!
Things were running so smoothly that I decided to take a risk. The extension cord provided me the opportunity to move to the other side of the front, where I had much more space and could better face the congregation. And so I set up on the other side. But that wasn’t the risk. The risk came when I asked my translator, as politely as I could, if he would mind staying on the opposite side, where we had preached the first three sermons side-by-side. That way (I didn’t mention this part), he wouldn’t be able to read my notes, and would have to actually translate what I said. He immediately pointed this out: “But then I won’t be able to read your notes!” “Yes, but it’ll make it easier, you see. The notes make it harder for you to translate what I’m saying.” I hoped my logic would win him over. Alas, but no. “No, I really believe it’s easier if I can read your notes.” I took a deep breath. “But I don’t always stick to the notes, and when you read my notes instead of…” Oh, forget logic, I swiftly decided. “You know what, let’s just try it out!” And I smiled, hoping that if my logic wouldn’t convince him, perhaps a winsome smile would. He acquiesced.
I was quite pleased with the set-up, and my excitement grew. When the time came, I stood up to take the microphone. Sure enough, my headache was gone! I was still anxious about the appeal, but I was looking forward to it, too. I just knew this night was going to turn out well.
And then, something strange happened. Usually when I preached, everything else was blocked out as I focused on delivering the message. But for some reason, that night was different. Suddenly, I was strangely and acutely aware of another thought; one that had nothing to do with the sermon. “I feel like I’m going to throw up,” I realized. The peculiar thing, however, was that I felt no panic or alarm at this realization. Instead, I thought about how strange the sensation was, wondered why it was occurring, and immediately and resolutely decided against such an action: “I am not going to do that. Certainly not while preaching! How ridiculous.” And the strangest part was that, as I decided this, the feeling left! Once again, my undivided attention was given to preaching.
But moments later, a second feeling interrupted, this one more urgent than the first. And this time, panic and dread swept over me. I realized in disbelief, “I’m fainting!” I took a few deep breaths and tried to steady myself. Perhaps I could coax it away as I had the first feeling. No such luck. “Not now, God, oh please, not now,” I pleaded silently. I started to preach faster, hoping that I could speed my way through the sermon and still somehow finish. It was a last-ditch effort, one similar to that of trying to bail water out of a blow-up raft with a hole in it. I realized with dismay that I wasn’t yet halfway through the sermon. I was running out of options. I paused and leaned against a nearby table. My vision started to go, so I moved across the stage to the side my translator was on. He gave me an odd look. I leaned against a speaker with my head down. I couldn’t explain; couldn’t move. As an unusual hush fell over the tent, I felt the embarrassment of the situation hit me. I mustered what little of my strength was left, and in one motion stepped off the stage, handed my clicker to a man who I presumed to be an elder – although by this point my vision was mostly gone (I’m still not sure who I handed it to) – and mumbled, “Can you finish for me?” And then I collapsed into a plastic chair.
I was vaguely aware of being surrounded by several ladies who immediately began to massage my arms and hands. They felt my forehead and neck, murmured alarms of “She has fever!”, and pulled my hair back into a ponytail. I was relieved when my driver told me that he would take me back to the hotel so I could rest. As I made my way to my the car, I noted that a man was preaching. “Good,” I thought. “At least the meeting is continuing.”
On the way back to the hotel, my feelings of relief gave way to bitter disappointment. This was the sermon I’d been so excited to preach! I hadn’t even preached half of it. And this was the first night with appeal cards. What would happen now? Would he do the appeal? And who was preaching, anyway? How would it go? And suddenly it hit me. What was I worrying about? These weren’t my meetings. They were God’s. And it was time for me to mentally place them back in His hands – the place they’d been all along. I was never in control to begin with – a fact I should’ve learned from that first Thursday. No, things still weren’t going according to “my plan.” But it was time to let go of my plan and take hold of God’s.
Monday night I stood up to preach, battling near-overwhelming fear. I pleaded with God to let me make it through the sermon. I found new meaning in an old favorite Bible promise: Isaiah 40:31. I claimed the promise as I never had before: “They will walk and not faint… they will walk and not faint.” Over and over I repeated the text in my head. Only once during the sermon did I begin to feel faint. I paused, looked down for a moment, and prayed. The feeling left, and God gave me the strength to finish that sermon and every one after that. And hey, 18 ½ rounds up anyway, right? :)
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