The elephant is gone.  For now, it’s gone.

These days, I’m breathing more easily.  I haven’t felt the weight of breathlessness on my chest for several weeks.  I haven’t had to reach for my rescue inhaler for most of that time, either.

I should be happy.  Ecstatic, even.

But, I’m not.

My general practitioner’s nurse called a few weeks ago to tell me the good news.  After checking with the formulary my insurance company provided, they had a long-term medication I could use to get relief.

Finally!

I had the prescription filled immediately.  Within days, I was better, even confident enough to leave the inhaler at home when I went out.

I can sleep at night again.  There is no longer any need to discuss the elephant in the room—the one sitting on my chest at intervals.

The elephant is gone.

So why am I not happy?  Well, it seems I’ve traded one animal for another.  Like the Pony Express riders, I’ve just gotten off one giant mount and thrown my leg over another.

What’s the new animal?  A horse.

No wait.  I meant to put that “a” into the animal’s name.  Hoarse.

That’s it.  No elephant; just hoarse.  The medication my doctor found for me makes me hoarse.  As in, “I’m a little hoarse.”  All the time.

I sat in the coffee shop this morning, having been served my usual cup of drip java by the kind shop owner, and I got lost in the words on my laptop’s screen.  You see, a little horse (without the a) is a pony, and the thought of changing mounts (elephant to pony) led me to visions of the Pony Express riders.

So I actually read more than I wrote this morning.  Wikipedia is a wonderful thing.  Or not.

I wonder if you know the Pony Express only existed for a short while?  And it mostly hired teenage boys?  Skinny teenage boys at that.  The top weight for the riders was 125 pounds.  They were in danger most of the time, with many of them dying or being wounded on the trails.  The company went bankrupt and closed down only a year and a half after its inception.

I’m sorry.  I’m not sure how we got here.  Let me reload.

I’m hoarse.  A little. It’s a side-effect of my medication.  When I talk, my voice sounds gravelly.  Rough.

Worse than that, I can’t sing.  Well, not so much can’t as shouldn’t.  I cough a lot while trying.  And the sound of my voice is not as pleasing as it once was.

This isn’t the outcome I was expecting.  Or wanting.

I love to sing.

But, I’ve figured out something else as I’ve considered my circumstances.

I need to breathe.  Breathing is essential.  And, that function is being facilitated much more completely these days.  It’s a good thing.

I’m not complaining.  Well, maybe just a little.  But, I’m grateful for the big blessing.  And, I’m attempting to be circumspect about the small inconvenience.

I did say I’ve been considering my situation.  It hasn’t escaped me that my hoarseness could be considered in the same light as the thorn in the flesh the apostle for whom I’m named wrote about in 2 Corinthians 12.

“Each time he said, ‘My grace is all you need. My power works best in weakness.’ So now I am glad to boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ can work through me.”
(2 Corinthians 12:9, NLT)

When I last wrote, I mentioned an epiphany of sorts, experienced in the middle of singing at church last week.  It actually occurred during one of my silences—as I waited for my voice to recover so I could be loud again.

Perhaps being silent isn’t such a bad thing, after all.

I want to sing out in the worship service.  I want to be strong.  It makes me feel good about myself when I am.

Oh.  That’s a definition of pride, isn’t it?

Selah.

I’m not going to have to use the medication forever.  I’ll sing again.  But, even if I don’t, I’m grateful to have breath.

Absolutely full of thanks.

And, full of His grace, which is enough—despite my weakness.

I’ll keep the pony for now.  I’m pretty sure it hurts less than the elephant when it sits down.

And besides that, the red-headed lady who raised me always told me, “Silence is golden.”

I wonder if she was right.

 

“Suffering is often the crucible in which our faith is tested.  Those who successfully come through the furnace of affliction are the ones who emerge like gold tried in the fire.”
(from “Unto the Hills”, Billy Graham)

“Nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
(Romans 8:39, KJV)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2025. All Rights Reserved.