Bronchitis: (n) inflammation of the mucous membrane in the bronchial tubes.
It’s a strange system, isn’t it?
But without equity, some of us would believe that being ill was a sign of God’s anger, while others would conclude that clear nasal passages were a divine authorization to act superior.
So we all get sick.
It’s all about the timing.
When I was in my twenties, I recorded an album in Nashville, Tennessee, that started to get some attention. That in itself was remarkable, but then, when our group was invited to perform at a huge festival, our producers were nearly ecstatic, and were sure that this was the stepping stone to give us the focus to launch our career.
We planned the set, rehearsed the material–and somewhere along the line in the process, I got bronchitis.
I was so congested, choked up and stuffed that I was unable to produce any sound from my voice beyond a harsh whisper.
I tried everything.
Hot steam, over-the-counter remedies, honey and lemon and various configurations of prayer.
I stubbornly refused to cancel the festival, deciding that I would heroically see it through–that somehow or another, God in His infinite wisdom would grant me voice at the last moment.
In front of thousands of people, I croaked out what could have been our hit song–had I not been “Froggy McFrog.”
It was embarrassing.
Even those who loved me didn’t want to be around me. It made them try to be nice–and they didn’t feel nice.
So to some degree, from that point on in my life (since I kind of make my living from my voice) I have become a Cold Nazi.
If a sniffle is in the room or a child is dripping nasal fluid all over the house, I run away in horror.
I am not proud of that.
But my bout with bronchitis did warn me about the danger … of not having a voice in the matter.