The healers and the Healer.

This blog is turning into something different than what I first thought it was.  I've already changed the title once, and I am just going to write and see where God takes me.  So please bear with me if it seems rambling.  Right now, at least, this is a musing on being healed and trusting the Healer when you're not.

I was raised in the Assembly of God church, and we believe in healing.  I believed that God could heal anyone anytime from anything.  However, I saw no contradiction between that belief and the fact that my mom, a Godly woman, was seriously ill.

Later, I was diagnosed with hypothyroidism.  I figured out that something was not right when I felt the washer shaking and then realized it wasn't on--that was my heart!  I went to the doctor sometime after and was put on medication.  I didn't realize the change that it made until we were riding in the  car, and my son (Val, I think) said, "I like you now, Mommy.  You never are mad any more."  I thought he was joking, but the rest of the family chimed in with sounds of affirmation.  Evidently, this medicine was having an effect on more than my heart.  I looked up symptoms of hypothyroidism:  fatigue, weight gain, dry, brittle nails, joint and muscle pain, and depression.  I had been depressed for how many years? and didn't even realize it.

So, I began taking levothyroxin and was doing quite well until one day I decided to make a change.  My church was getting really heavy into faith healing.  It was suggested that if you were taking medicine, you weren't trusting God.  Well, who was I to distrust God?  I went forward that morning and threw my medicine away that afternoon.

And I started getting mean again.  Angry again.  Tired again.  Depressed again.  Problem was, I didn't seem to recognize it in myself.  My family certainly did, but not me.  It took me a few months to figure it out, but I finally went back to my medicine, and then things returned to normal.  I was kind of confused as to why God chose not to heal me, but I put the thought away.

Later, as many of you know, I gave birth prematurely, at approximately 24 weeks, to a baby boy.  We stayed with him and had to deal with his issues on our own.  My sister and brother weren't available (I honestly don't remember if I ever asked my brother--he might have come if I had), and the relatives that lived nearby had other obligations.  It was the most alone we had ever felt.  One day we were in the waiting room--even parents could only spend short amounts of time with their babies--and I noticed a woman praying.  When she seemed finished, I went to her and said that it was good to see someone else praying.  She told me that I have to have faith that my baby would come out cured.  I couldn't give any thought to the baby being anything but healthy--it would take victory from God and give it to the Devil.  Even if I didn't see any improvement, I had to claim the improvement I didn't see.

That was a strange thing for me to hear.  In the state I was in, I didn't know how to take it.  We were in a constant battle for our baby, and the idea that we should claim health for this child who had so many serious problems that he was considered the sickest baby in intensive care seemed really strange.to me.  Not that I didn't believe God could work any miracle he chose.  You saw it every day in the NICU.  One day he was dying, the next he was showing remarkable improvement.  One day he had a hole in his heart, the next day it was healed--miraculously.  However, the major healing didn't come.  Thomas Gaylen died at 11 days of age.  More on this later.

Life went on, and time passed.  After many life changes, I found myself in Tucson and going to the Vineyard.  Again, big emphasis on God healing.  At one point, the idea (at least to my ear) was that if God wasn't healing you, it was because you weren't persistent enough. Keep asking and he'll finally come through.  I had Fuch's Dystrophy and was waiting until one eye was ready for the surgery.  Hearing this, my old determination came back.  I would seek and seek and seek until I found the answer I needed.  Well, I sought and sought and sought--and finally I had to admit to myself that I wasn't healed-just disappointed.  About a year later, though, I did have surgery on my right eye.  I can now see adequately with both eyes without glasses.  I was rejoicing in being able to go to the bathroom without putting them on, when I heard God's voice.  "Remember asking me to heal your eyes?  You're welcome."

This is my point.  God heals us all. Every one.  Some he heals miraculously.  Others he heals through those that he calls to be healers--doctors, nurses, EMTs, psychologists, and so on.  Others he allows to stay as they are until they are eventually healed in heaven.  I don't understand why.  After all these years, I've come to realize that I don't need to understand.  You just have to accept that God knows what he's doing and stop second guessing him.

Now, please don't misunderstand.  I love my friends at the Vineyard and at my old churches.  I respect their faith.  I believe that many of those who plead to be healed are--I remember the miracles pronounced there, and I praise God for them.  But I do not agree that God means to heal every single person here on this earth miraculously.  I do not believe that your persistent pleading will necessarily bring about the healing you expect.  I think that understanding that God, for his own purpose, allows some to suffer and be healed in ways that we don't understand can give us peace and confidence.

Like I said, this was a musing.  It's one of those things that's been on my heart and in my head, so now at least it's on paper.