Finding Joy in Unexpected Struggles

It’s Christmas Eve Eve, and this year has thrown me a curveball—an ongoing infection that causes wounds on my legs. I was just in the urgent care a few days ago when Krystina thoroughly examined me and prescribed an ointment. Almost immediately (the next day) pustules had appeared, O joy. (Yes, pustules. Merry Christmas to me!) So today, I found myself killing time at urgent care, which, for the record, is like the Starbucks of medical crises—you don’t want to be there, but sometimes it’s the only option. Maggie, the nurse practitioner, was my saving grace. She saw the angriest bump and lanced it with the kind of precision that would make a surgeon proud. I imagine she might have whispered, “Take that, Goliath,” as she worked. She was that good.

I have been battling infected and angry wounds for over six months. It’s as if the infection didn’t get the memo that it was supposed to pack up and leave. Meanwhile, with the new regimen, I’m playing pharmacist, juggling antibiotics, probiotics, antiemetics, and an ointment that requires three applications a day. It’s enough to make anyone feel like Moses—wandering through a wilderness of medications, searching for the promised land of clear skin.

Keeping all of this straight is no small feat. I’ve set alarms on my phone, scribbled reminders on sticky notes, and even considered carving tablets of stone, but those are a bit cumbersome to carry around. Despite my best efforts, I’ll admit there are moments when I’m tempted to throw up my hands and ask, “Lord, is this really what you meant by bearing my cross?”

Hospice care has been hit-or-miss over the holidays, which is frustrating when you’re trying to keep a plague (okay, maybe not quite a plague, but it feels like one) at bay. Maggie’s care was a godsend—her kindness and competence a reminder that angels sometimes trade their wings for scrubs. But the gaps in the hospice care leave me feeling like the shepherds in the Christmas story: watching and waiting, hoping for some good news to arrive.

Through it all, I’ve found moments of humor and grace. I mean, how can you not laugh when your leg pustules become the centerpiece of your holiday season? And isn’t that what Christmas is about? Finding joy in the unexpected, light in the darkness, and hope even when you’re sitting in an urgent care waiting room surrounded by people coughing like they’ve been chain-smoking since the Nixon administration.

As I prepared for Christmas Eve, I hold onto hope. Sure, the infection is stubborn, and the road to healing feels longer than Joseph and Mary’s trek to Bethlehem. But this old man has learned a thing or two about persistence—and about how God sometimes shows up in the most unexpected ways. Here’s to brighter days ahead, a Christmas filled with grace and healing, and the assurance that, even in our most trying moments, there’s always something to laugh about and be grateful for.