I caught a pretty nasty cold in February. It made the rounds of our whole family, landing on me last. I’d hoped it would lose steam before it got to me, but no such luck.
I had to pause my revisions for the manuscript I was working on. I turned down substitute teacher jobs for three days. My brain was fuzzy from cold medicines, and my eyes watered when I looked at the computer screen too long. Mostly, I curled up on the sofa, let the fireplace burn, and watched “Jane the Virgin” on Netflix.
By the time Sunday rolled around, I wasn’t feeling any better. I skipped morning services and stayed in bed. My husband preaches evening worship, and I run the media, so I had to get myself up and dressed. No one else is trained to do my job. Also, it was Super Bowl Sunday, not a good day to find a last minute fill-in.
Just before I left for church, I got an email. It was from a literary journal I’d submitted a short story. I started submitting short stories at the end of 2015, and mostly received rejections, so I opened the email half-heartedly, already resigned to another, “We’re sorry to inform you.”