Moses and the Migraine
I am a horrid Sunday School teacher during the regular year. I worry and I stress and I have 1,000 yellow Post-It notes all over the lesson plan. I don't sleep the night before, wondering about how I will navigate myself and these precious little lambs through the Bible verse and the lesson. But VBS week? Count me in. I put on my lime-green STAFF t-shirt and proudly walk the halls, singing the songs of the day.
Exodus. On my first day of teaching VBS, I asked the kiddos, "Who knows what this word means?"
"Exit."
"A book in the Bible."
"A big group of people."
"It's when Moses led the Israelites out of Egypt."
Wow, I think. All of the above. Aren't kids smart?
And on that particular day, the kids wanted to spend so much time looking up Bible verses and reading them, that we almost didn't have time to sing "On the Trail Again" (yes, to the tune of "On the Road Again.") Kids excited about reading the Bible? Who knew! And by the end of the week, we had sung the songs, danced the dances, constructed the crafts, read the stories, walked the park trail, and really experienced the story of Moses. And I had a migraine that was splitting my face wide open.
I am cursed with migraines, and have been for more than 20 years. Usually manageable, this one was not to be controlled. No medications, no exercise, no stress relief, and no amount of sleep was helping. And on the last night of VBS, I found myself in a warm bath, duly medicated, with an ice pack across my neck. I love VBS, but I hate migraines. And suddenly, on this night, my last ditch effort to feel better, the door to the bathroom flew open.
"Mom, I need you to . . . "
"Sam, I love you. Get out."
Was this the drugs talking? Thank goodness for that "I love you."
And then the door again. Was this a plague? It was my 10-year old daughter.
"Mom, Dad says it's really important that I get medicine on my cold sore right now."
I looked at her like she was an alien. Does she not see the bath, the ice, me?
"Get out. I love you. I will help you soon. Get out."
Now I knew I was loopy. And I wasn't even sure I wanted to keep saying "I love you," but it kept happening. I just wanted them out.
The door opens again. Are you kidding me with this? My husband.
"Chris, can I find the cold sore medicine for Abby?"
"I will find it when I get out." I am speaking slowly with my teeth clenched. I can't look at him.
"God," I think to myself. "Let my people go. Let my people go OUT OF MY BATHROOM. Let them make an exodus OUT OF MY BATHROOM."
"Do you need anything for your headache?" he asks, leaving.
Teeth still clenched. "I need two minutes with no one in this bathroom."
He closes the door.
Exodus. It's an exit. Lots of people. Leaving.
After my bath, I joined my people downstairs. I kissed Sam good night, I found the cold-sore medicine, and interestingly, not too many people asked me for things during the course of those few short minutes that I remained awake.
Thank you, God, for a good week at VBS, for relief from a three-day headache, for an accidental "I love you" dropped into a sentence, and for sending my very normal family out of the bathroom, on a very short exodus. . . to the family room.
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