My right arm looks 10 years younger than my left arm. The wrinkles are filled in and very few bluish veins are showing. Its youthful appearance is a result of being swollen, apparently full of poison.
I am very susceptible to the ugly symptoms caused by poisonous plants and bug bites — rashes, itching, and swelling. Our yard is full of lovely flowering plants installed by the previous owner — and it’s also full of poison ivy, poison sumac and poison oak. I usually avoid the landscaped areas where it grows and offer my husband a helpless smile while he begrudgingly toils under the watchful glare of the demanding slave master we call a yard.
While cautiously and timidly trimming, dead-heading, planting and weeding this week, I must have stuck my right arm into something because right away I felt the itching and watched small domes of swollen skin begin to form near my wrist. Ice and Benadryl offer some comfort but are inconvenient and make me sleepy.
So, as I type this, I’m watching my right arm swell and fighting the urge to scratch. I’ve scheduled a doctor’s appointment because the last time I exposed myself to this environmental hazard, it traversed across my body for weeks and I ended up requiring shots and rounds of steroids.
My husband could probably take a sumac-infused bath and come out rash-free. I would go into anaphylactic shock and be hospitalized.
It’s funny how we as individuals react to things differently. One guy might require an EpiPen if stung by a bee while another one flicks it off with just an “Oww.” Or one person’s pleasure might be another person’s poison. An individual can savor the flavor of a California Cabernet or Italian Brunello, while another might trash 10 years of sobriety with simply one sip. A woman may drag herself to the gym three times a week, dreading the hateful treadmill or elliptical trainer, while a second woman spends three hours a day there, withering away to a skeletal weight as she abuses her body with the exact same exercises as the first woman. A man might enjoy a weekly game of poker with friends while it would trigger in another man a craving to spend endless hours gambling away a fortune on the web.
Sometimes we know when we are susceptible to the poisonous infection of an addiction or unhealthy habit. We feel that small hot pit in our stomach or hear that low voice in our head that says, “You should stop. Now.” But maybe we don’t want to listen or even believe the warning is necessary.
I heard a voice say, “Stop ... now,” a couple of times when I was out in the yard. (I think it was my husband.) I discovered when we moved in two years ago how pervasive the poisonous plants were, and knowing how highly allergic I am to them, I promised myself (and my family who has to listen to me complain) that I would avoid them at all costs. But I thought I was being careful, could control the situation. My swollen, mannequin-looking, itchy arm indicates otherwise.
We are all individuals to God. He asks us to draw near to him, knowing full well who we are and what flaws and weaknesses we’ll bring with us. He doesn’t expect us all to be collated copies, stapled and boxed, or cookie cutter believers, sealed and sold by the dozen.
Of course, he handed down some basic rules about specific sins; he gave us 10 of them, in fact. But I imagine that, as a God who counts hairs on our heads and stores our tears, he also knows that there are behaviors and habits that may be sinful to us but not to someone else, and vice versa.
So we can turn to him, like a divining rod searching for life sustaining water, to determine what problem in our life has evolved into a sin. Or we may realize it is a sin for us because of what it brings into our lives — distraction, frustration, guilt, obsession, pain for others, pain for ourselves, or simply that sense of, “This feels wrong, wrong, wrong.”
I knew the minute I felt that first itch and looked down to see my skin swelling that I made a mistake. It isn’t always that clear to me what transgressions I need to confess to God and clear out of my life. But praying, reading scripture, and paying attention to that low quiet voice may help me figure it out. Then, I just have to listen to the voice .. and stop. Now.
Jaletta Albright Desmond is a self-syndicated columnist who writes about faith, family, and the fascinatingly mundane aspects of daily life. She lives in North Carolina with her husband and two daughters. Contact her at jdesmond@bdtonline.com.
Columns
July 9, 2009
Poisonous plant underscores vulnerability to unhealthy habits
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