The Salad

I’ve known for a while that I needed a break.

But don’t we all? Aren’t most of us sprinting through the workweek, only to spend the weekend catching up on everything we didn’t get to Monday through Friday? In my case, I’d been working weekends too, which, if I’m being honest, had quietly turned into an entire month of weekends.

“Mom,” my daughter said one day, “you need some days off.”

“Mom,” my son added, “I’m going to physically pull you away from that computer on the weekends.”

Naturally, I responded with a generous helping of Mom guilt, reminding them that someone around here has to pay the bills. Sometimes, I explained, weekends aren’t optional.

That night, as I scrolled through my favorite podcasts before falling asleep, I landed on Joyce Meyer’s Talk It Out. The episode was about self-care and the importance of rest. Joyce shared how she once worked herself straight into serious health problems.

What a coincidence.

The very next day, I took a few hours off and went to church. The pastor taught on the true meaning of Sabbath, what it actually means to rest, and why it matters so much to God.

At this point, I started to feel like God was trying to tell me something.  I just couldn’t quite figure out what.

Two days later, I woke up at 3 a.m. with the unmistakable sense that something was very wrong. Let me clarify, seriously wrong. My stomach was in open rebellion, and then it hit me. Earlier that evening, I had eaten a salad that was possibly… definitely… past its expiration date.

I had full-blown, wish-I-was-dead, mama-please-save-me food poisoning.

I retched. I puked. I pulled muscles in my back from repeated hurling. Eventually, I grabbed a pillow and a blanket and decided that if I was going to die, it would be on the bathroom floor, next to the toilet, where I belonged. I imagined them finding me there, shaking their heads sadly, whispering, She never even liked salad.

At one point, I looked up and saw all four of my dogs staring down at me. They didn’t bark. They didn’t move. They just stared, deeply concerned and profoundly confused. I was not supposed to be sleeping on the bathroom floor, and they were unsure how to process this turn of events. (If you’re wondering why I have four dogs, that’s a separate story involving my complete lack of boundaries.)

As I lay there, I noticed a cobweb in the corner of the ceiling and made a mental note to clean it later. Then I wondered if there were more cobwebs I hadn’t noticed. And somewhere between nausea and delirium, a thought crossed my mind.

God, I can’t believe You gave me food poisoning just to force me to rest.

And immediately, gently, clearly, the answer came:

I didn’t give you food poisoning. But I do work all things for your good, and I will work this for your good.

Rest was officially on the agenda.

For the next twenty-four hours, rest wasn’t optional, it was mandatory. I could barely get out of bed. Anyone who texted me received the same response: I’m sick today. Can’t talk. Phone calls were completely off the table.

I drifted in and out of sleep, listening to sermons, podcasts, and a few ’90s music documentaries. My kids popped in now and then to tell me about their day. But mostly, I lay quietly in the dark, praying for healing and promising God I would learn how to slow down.

When I finally recovered, something had shifted.

I felt calmer. More peaceful. I realized that weeks of constant busyness had pushed self-care completely off my radar, and without it, I was running on fumes. I also recognized that my priorities had slipped out of alignment, affecting not just me, but how I was leading my family spiritually.

I would not wish food poisoning on anyone. Ever. Not even a little.

But I am grateful for the reminder, to slow down, to rest, and to take better care of myself.

That said…

It may be a very long time before I eat another salad. 🥗