Endurance
I didn’t plan on spending mid‑February learning the spiritual discipline of coughing, but here we are.
If I rewind the tape, the story really starts around February 10th, when Ben (my son) got sick and I took him to urgent care. Influenza A. The kind of diagnosis where the doctor doesn’t even need to say, “It’s probably going to move through the household.”
You just know. It hangs in the air like a prophecy.
By the 13th, my body started sending its own telegrams:
Aches. Nose rebellion. Throat mutiny. Coughing. Four hours of sleep.
Not exactly the recipe for healing.
The middle stretch was the hardest. That’s when the flu stops being an “event” and becomes a lifestyle. I was trying to work with showing up for meetings, answering emails, pretending my brain wasn’t wrapped in a warm, damp towel. I kept telling myself I was “resting,” but really I was negotiating with my calendar like it was a hostage situation.
I took Tylenol only when I needed it, which is a very responsible way of saying: I was stubborn.
But here’s the part that surprised me.
Somewhere in the fog, I kept finding myself whispering gratitude.
Not because I felt good because I didn’t. and not because I was being especially holy because guess what, I wasn’t. But because I could feel this strange, steadying presence underneath the misery. Like God wasn’t fixing the flu, but He was sitting with me in it. Jesus as the quiet roommate who hands you a glass of water and doesn’t comment on how terrible you look.
There was this thread of dependence woven through the whole thing. Not dramatic. Not performative. Just… real. The kind of trust that shows up when you’re too tired to manufacture anything else.
And then, almost without noticing, things shifted.
Yesterday and today, I’ve felt more like myself. I have more energy, normal vitals, a body that isn’t actively protesting my existence. The cough is still hanging around like the last guest at a party, but even that’s easing up.
I’m starting to think about my rhythms again:
my daily walk, my work, volunteering, writing, the small rituals that make me feel human.
And honestly, that’s the part that feels holy.
Not the endurance.
Not the suffering.
Not the “I made it through the flu like a warrior” narrative.
It’s the return.
The quiet re-entry into ordinary life.
The moment you realize you’re ready to step back into the world, not because you forced yourself to, but because your body finally whispered, “Okay. Let’s try again.”
If there’s anything this week taught me, it’s that healing is rarely dramatic. It’s slow, unglamorous, and mostly invisible. But it’s also faithful. It keeps moving even when you’re not paying attention.
And maybe that’s the grace of it that God meets us not only in our strength, but in our congestion, our exhaustion, our half-hearted prayers, our Tylenol calculations, our messy middle days.
As you find me, flu and all.
As You Find Me (AYFM) is where Brad Hachez - a visionary neurodivergent creator - explores tech, faith, health, & life. Join the journey to streamline productivity, deepen relationships, & reflect on purpose with resilience, presence, and servant-hearted growth.