Ever since we moved into our current house a little over 12 years ago, I have endured a seriously itchy rash each summer. For the last decade, I've assumed it was poison ivy, as our property consists of several acres out in the country, surrounded by fields full of scrub trees and tall weeds. There are no sidewalks out here, so on my walks I often end up stepping off the road and into the weeds as a car flies by. There is plenty of poison ivy around, and I have learned to adhere to the adage, “leaves of three, let it be.” But no matter what I do, I end up with the same rash in the same places at the same time every year.
The itching gets so bad I often end up at the urgent care clinic getting either a Cortisone shot or a prescription for an oral steroid – sometimes both. Earlier this year I finally got mad enough about it to be proactive, to go beyond my local allergist and dermatologist and get a second opinion from an allergy specialist at the University of Michigan.
Surprisingly, he said it was most likely chiggers, based on the common location of the bites and the intensity of the itching. Chiggers are little invisible bugs that live on land like ours (prairie-like and near a marsh) and in warm weather crawl up your skin from the grass or weeds and bite. He suggested that I wear long-sleeved shirts and long pants, preferably rubber-banded around the ankles, and gloves if I was going to work outside. He might as well have told me to vacation in Siberia every summer.
After nearly ten years of my definition of summer being equal parts sunshine, camping trips, and Prednisone, this doctor also commented, “Yeah, oral steroids are not much good for chigger bites.” He sent me back to my dermatologist with prescriptions for an extra-potent anti-itch cream and an oral antihistamine (think super-duper Benadryl).
This spring we had a pest-control service come and spray specifically for the little buggers, and I was careful never to go out without shoes on my feet once the weather got warm. This made me so sad, as I have always loved to walk barefoot in the grass, but I was determined that this summer would be different; I vowed I would not take Prednisone in 2023.
I made it to early July with just a few itchy spots that I immediately coated with my new cream, taking the prescribed antihistamine along with my regular Zyrtec before bed. I finally seemed to have things under control this year.
Then, after returning from a long camping trip in mid-July and seeing how overgrown the landscaping around the house had become, I spent the morning weeding with a vengeance. It was so therapeutic; I have always enjoyed weeding because of how productive it makes me feel and how tidy my yard looks afterward. I even gathered all the pulled weeds in a huge pile and carried them over to dump in the field at the edge of our property. Without gloves. Without long pants on.
Sure enough, within three days I had itchy spots on my chin, my cheek, my eyebrow; on my arms, abdomen, and hips. A flaming rash crept down my neck and chest. I bravely applied my cream on every patch, obediently swallowed the pills at bedtime, and took oatmeal, Epsom salt, and even baking soda baths. I applied ice packs in the middle of the long, itchy nights and cut my fingernails so I wouldn’t draw blood when I scratched.
My husband, who knows that this is an annual affair for me and is usually very empathetic, finally sat me down one day after listening to me complain about how miserable I was.
“Cher,” he said calmly. “Don’t you see the folly in this? The doctor told you that you probably shouldn’t be weeding and working outside unless you are fully covered. Why do you act like this shouldn’t have happened? You know there are chiggers out there or something you’re allergic to.”
“But we spraaaaayed….” I whined. “And the weeds needed to come out! It looked terrible!”
But I knew Jim was right. I had heard the oft-quoted, wry definition of insanity: doing the same thing again and again and expecting different results.
Why did I think that I could weed as I’ve always done and not get bit by chiggers this time?
I took in what Jim was saying to me, knowing he was pointing out what should have been obvious. I swallowed my complaints as I accepted the consequences of my actions.
Plus, a little part of me loved that he used the word “folly.”
My husband knows us. He knew that if he had just told me to knock it off, that I had gotten what I deserved—the consequences of my folly—he would’ve sounded like a jerk, and I would’ve just gotten mad, cried, and felt even more sorry for myself.
And he knows me. He knew that I, the one who loves anything connected to the words “Bible” and “study,” the one who leaves Scriptures on sticky notes on the fridge, could not argue with a biblical principle like the repercussions of folly.
Folly (fŏl′ē):
1. Lack of good sense, understanding, or foresight.
2. An act or instance of foolishness.
3. A costly undertaking having an absurd or ruinous outcome.
Absurd. Ruinous. And itchy.
The Bible has a few things to say about folly and foolishness.
Proverbs 28:26 says, “Whoever trusts in his own mind is a fool, but he who walks in wisdom will be delivered.”
Proverbs 26:11 says, “As a dog returns to its vomit, so fools repeat their folly.”
King Solomon tells us in Ecclesiastes 2:13-14, “Wisdom is better than foolishness, just as light is better than darkness. For the wise can see where they are going, but fools walk in the dark.”
As I sat back and pondered the situation, I asked myself again, “Why, Cheryl? Why did you pull the weeds without taking precautions, knowing that this could happen?” And the answer was, ultimately, “Because I wanted to.” I just wanted to. I wanted my yard to look nice. I wanted to get the weed situation under control—immediately. My foolish desire to be in control, and my impatience, outweighed the forethought of potential consequences. And I paid the price.
The lesson to be learned here is that I need to wear a bee-keeper suit if I want to do any type of yard work from now on. Just kidding. The lesson I need to learn is that I must wisely consider the consequences of my actions before I determine to do something, no matter how forcefully my impatient self demands it.
That being said, the real point of this probably-more-than-you-wanted-to-know story, friend, is to encourage you to be like Jim, not Cheryl. Despite my foolishness, Jim spoke truth to me calmly and lovingly, holding me to the wisdom of the Scriptures I claim to believe in, with a grace that could only be provided by God.
I would kiss him, but I’m too busy scratching.
Love the lesson, & the value placed on your husband’s advice!