How forgiveness filled me with joy before a laughable reaction.

May 2026: My white blood cell count is low–again–but I know better than to think it’s leukemia, because seven years ago it was low and I ended up quarantined before it was a thing. Here’s the conundrum…

May 15, 2019: I was of a certain age, and my employer recommended I top off my measles vaccine. I worked with medically fragile students, so I rolled up my sleeve and took one in the arm.

May 23, 2019: For months, I had marinated in thoughts of ill will and clung to a grudge that seemed justified. The problem was that the grudge wasn’t hurting anyone else—it was making me miserable. It festered beneath the surface, rendering me physically ill.

That morning, I pulled on a T-shirt emblazoned with the words Choose Joy, but the shirt didn’t change my heart. That afternoon, with a cloak of heaviness, I decided to make nice and end the grudge match. I was exhausted from the mental sparring and could no longer live under its oppression.

Within hours, I received confirmation it was the right decision. My brother invited me to try out the tree swing he’d hung. As I soared through the air, laughing like a kid again, something shifted. For the first time in months, I felt genuine joy—not forced, not printed on a T-shirt, but real.

She laughs easily and often…

May 25, 2019: My body ached, but it wasn’t from belly-laughing, and decided to try something new: a fever of 101.8—an impressive accomplishment considering I had temperature dysregulation since the 1980’s. By the time I arrived at the clinic, however, it had already retreated to a much less dramatic 99.8, making me feel foolish for making an appointment.

The physician assistant suspected a virus, ordered urine cultures and a battery of lab tests, and sent me home with instructions to return if things got worse…well, they did.

May 29, 2019: “I’m too old for zits,” I muttered, glaring at the angry red bump smack in the center of my cheek as I caught my reflection in the rearview mirror. I mentally reviewed my usual suspects: no gluten, no known allergens, nothing new. Maybe—just maybe—it was a reaction to the Tylenol my friend had given me.

With a smirk, she joked, “I hope it’s not a reaction to the measles vaccine.”

I laughed. “Yeah…me too.”

Frustrated with the pre-pubescent rash, I scheduled a follow-up with a trusted nurse practitioner. “I was at the clinic two days ago,” I explained, my voice scratchy and low. “I still feel awful. And I never got the results.”

“There’s nothing definitive,” she replied. “But let me know if you start feeling worse.”

Outside, I climbed into my car and immediately consulted Dr. Google: and Leukemia topped the list. My stomach lurched. A dear friend had died after a brutal, years-long battle with it. Seriously, God? After decades of medical testing, misdiagnoses, and rare diseases…was leukemia really going to be the thing that took me out?

That night, I lay in bed—restless and flushed. My skin felt hot against the sheets.

June 3, 2019: By morning, a rash had bloomed across my chest and torso—angry, red, and spreading. The patches stung like sunburn, and every movement stretched my skin like a tight drum. I called the clinic and was told to come in for fluids.

The nurse guided me into the brand-new infusion center. I was the first patient ever to use one of only two private rooms with sliding doors instead of curtains. Apparently, those rooms were reserved for patients you didn’t want mingling with the general infusion population. Lucky me. My blossoming rash and low white blood cell count had earned me the deluxe isolation suite—quarantine chic.

After a few minutes, the nurse practitioner arrived and and shook her head . “That’s a lot worse than it was yesterday,” she said, then disappeared to find a physician known for his dermatological passion.

A few minutes later, they returned. The doctor looked practically giddy, as he peppered me with questions about timing, symptoms, history, and exposures. Then they huddled together, talked as if I weren’t there, and disappeared again.

The infusion nurse wandered in to inspect the rash herself, “So, what did they say?”

“They’d be back,” I shrugged.

Finally, the doctor returned with a rye grin. “We talked to my retired hematologist friend and he likes helping with exotic cases.”

Great…I was exotic. Hand me another zebra ribbon.

He paused just long enough to build suspense. “Measles.”

I blinked…agog.

He nodded. “Yep. Measles,” then quickly added, “It’s a non-contagious reaction to the vaccine.”

Basically I looked like I had measles. I felt like I had measles, but I wasn’t spreading measles. After decades of mystery illnesses, I ended up quarantined with a reaction that sounded like it belonged in a nineteenth-century novel.

I was instructed to stay home while the CDC was notified. Apparently, I was only the fourth person in the state diagnosed with vaccine-related measles, making me one in 83 million…again.

The following day, I returned for more fluids and as I shuffled past the front desk, a brand-new sign greeted me:

IF YOU HAVE ANY SIGNS OF MEASLES, PLEASE INFORM US IMMEDIATELY.

I tugged my oversized sweatshirt tighter around my blotchy face and kept walking while my immune system seemed to mutter, Not again.

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May 2026: What lingers with me isn’t the rash (thankfully), the quarantine, or even a rare case of the measles. It’s the genuine, giddy, childlike laughter.

A few days before the fever, before the low white count, before Dr. Google convinced me I was dying, I loosened my grip on control and gave up a grudge. As my 6’4” brother pushed me higher on that tire swing than I thought I could manage, I felt something I hadn’t felt in months: unabashed joy.

When I surrender control and trust God when I pushed beyond what I think is manageable, He meets me there: Joy isn’t manufactured or chosen; it’s the natural overflow of trusting Him.

Seven years later, I still listen to that laugh when I need a booster. The measles faded, the fear passed, but the joy of the Lord is my strength.