Titus has been at the Mayo Clinic for almost two weeks. The doctors have determined only that his esophagus is being rubbed raw, and this could be the cause of his failure to thrive. They confirm he suffers from a condition known as eosinophilic esophagitis, an inflammatory disease of the esophagus, which can lead to difficulty and pain in swallowing. Its cause is unknown, though it is often associated with a food allergy or acid reflux. He has been given certain dietary restrictions, and if the restrictions do not work, we’ll begin more aggressive treatment with medicine.
Perhaps this is the answer, or part of the answer. I have prayed that God would give my son relief, would grant him a miracle growth spurt. So far, that has not been in the cards. Titus has lost another pound since the drive to Mayo. He is slipping into a backward cycle.
Titus has not been healed.
“If you just have faith,” the faith healer said. “It’s all for God’s glory,” the well-meaning hospital visitors said. Faith, they tell me, is the silver bullet. After all, did any other faith carrier in the Gospels ask Jesus for healing and not receive it? The cave in my heart is filled with these pious promises echoing off every wall.
I can feel the anger rising at those who would use Scripture to indict those of us who struggle with faith, who crane our necks to hear the slightest whisper of God on the wind.
“Only believe,” they say, “and God will work all things together for good.”
“What is good?” I’ve wanted to ask so many times. Instead, I’ve just nodded and smiled and spat one thousand silent curses.
But sweet Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I want to believe. Lord, help my unbelief.
The words of others can be such a scourge, and their byproducts—anger, bitterness, unforgiveness—are a poison, aren’t they? Can you feel them? Even now, I feel the poison gurgling up like a rancid spring. This poison spring—it is the neurotoxin able to kill the nerves of the spirit.
Let’s consider the poison. Shall we?
The Ozark land is home to only two kinds of poisonous spiders—the brown recluse, and the black widow. The black widow—she is Amber’s least favorite of all of God’s creation.
At the old rock homestead, the house that was in the family for at least four generations, the recycling bin sits against the limestone outer wall. The bin’s deep lip serves both as a fastening joint and a handle for carrying it to the curb at Monday’s first light. The lip is deep enough to swallow four fingers up to the second knuckle; it is a functional design for humans and black widows alike.
The black widow is a member of a spider family containing thirty-two varieties, and her bite thrusts a sickening neurotoxin under skin. Her pinprick brings nausea, cold sweats, and sometimes difficulty breathing. She weaves a thick, low web, which lacks the sophisticated artistry of her cousin the black and yellow argiope. The black widow is a pragmatic dame, little adorned except for the red hourglass that serves as portent only to the one who might dare flip her on her back. She is a functional home builder who hides in any good nook or cranny. Her sting is light, and some of her victims report never having felt her bite.
Black widow—she rather enjoys lying in wait in the deep lip around the edges of the recycling bin. She waits for unsuspecting insects, for fingers. She is an undetectable shadow-hider, a sister of stealth.
Black widow—she is a ghost. I flip the lid from the bin with the tip of my shoe and toss in old milk cartons, a juice bottle, and a flattened Rice Krispies box. I scan the underside of the lip, look for her hazy home. She is suspended in the silk cloud, her delicate spindle legs raised above her plumpish round rear. She is pounce ready. I root her out with a stick, mash her on the concrete with the sole of my shoe, and smear her across the pavement for good measure. This demolition of the widow’s home will last only a few weeks. Then her progeny return to take up residence. They are her specters, projects of hers that seem to return in the night.
Sometimes we run from poison, smash it against the concrete. Other times poisons are not so evident; sometimes they are appealing.
An Ozark spring is an unforgettable thing. God wrinkled the covers of places like Spavinaw Creek, left peaks and valleys covered thick with the brilliance of his third creative day. Most things come in pastel greens in the Ozark spring—the tender leaf buds of the oak and the maple—but some things come in crisper shades of dogwood white and redbud purple. There is God-spoken food in the Ozark spring—wild carrot and potato, dandelions, walnuts. My favorite, though, is the morel, that honeycomb-capped mushroom that soaks up butter better than it suffers direct sunlight. It is a delicacy in these parts, one for which good people pay a blue-collar fortune.
The false morel, though, is a red-capped temptress. Its bosom is a rich burnt red, an inviting hue. The morel bears a distinctive and delicate inward-pitted look like that of a honeycomb. The false morel is cruder, appearing as a discarded sienna paper wad fixed to the top of a short used candle.
The false morel carries a volatile carcinogenic toxin, a slow acting poison that, when ingested, attacks both the bowels and the brain. The toxin induces a well-founded need for Pepto-Bismol, Gatorade, and a quick trip to your doctor. (And yes, this is why your mother warned you against eating wild mushrooms.)
I saw the devil fungus along a local bike trail this spring. I tipped my cap to hers (every beautiful thing deserves its due, even if only from a distance) and carried on. I knew better than to sauté her in butter, as inviting as she might appear. There is no dish made better by the addition of buttered poison.
From an early age, my mother warned me of the sting of the black widow and the poison of the bitter wild mushrooms. Didn’t yours? But what of the toxins that are less conspicuous? What of those poisons that are endemic to the human condition, that affect the spiritual nervous system? What of the contagions that kill, steal, and destroy?
Consider the poisons of the human condition. Consider your poison of choice.
Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner. Teach me how to extract the poison; teach me how to come clean.