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.
Showing posts with label Christianity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Christianity. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Saturday, January 26, 2013
write what you know
I went to a day-long (if you consider 8:30-2:00 day long!!) training for Stephen Ministries today. It was cloudy and rainy, grey skies, and inside the training was on grief, suicide, and depression. I was fascinated by what I heard. The women who led the training sessions had all experienced the things that they were talking about, and they spoke from the heart. I was especially struck by the second woman, who spoke on suicide.
Her name was Vicki, and she was preceded by another very knowledgable woman who told us about mental health issues. She was very interesting--at a professional level. I was interested but not absorbed. Then Vicki spoke. This brave woman lost her 21-year-old son to suicide four years ago, and her story was riveting. She very forthrightly spoke about the mistakes that she made, the signs that she missed, and the grief that she was still experiencing. One thing that she said struck me to my very core. It was by no means the meat of the lecture, but it was life-changing for me. Forgive the paraphrase--it didn't occur to me to write it down. But it's fairly accurate.
"There are others around now who can also speak, and at first I thought I would pass the responsibility on to her, (but) I have assimilated the experience within myself. This is what I know. This is what I do."
Yes. Finally I understand my own calling. For years I have hesitated to write overly much about grief, death, suffering, but they are who I am. I have dealt with loss from before I can remember. I am 55, and in that time I have experienced the hospitalization of my mother numerous times, her stroke, heart failure and eventual death. I have dealt with depression and mental health issues in my own life and in the life of my family. I lost my mother at 15, lost one child through miscarriage and another through premature birth and eventual death, lost all my uncles and aunts and some cousins. My father died when I was 34 (not out of time for him--he was 81). My niece died when she was 20 and I was around 26. On and on it goes. But the most powerful loss that I experienced was the death of my husband when I was 35. I did not recover from that for many many years. You might say that I never will recover--you don't "get well" from grief. You learn to live with it and move on, but it never entirely goes away. Nor would I want it to. He was my husband, and I loved him.
So what does all this mean? Well, what it does not mean is that I go around with a cloud over my head all day every day. Most days, especially now, are pretty good. I can live from day to day with joy, because I understand that God is on the throne and I will see my loved ones again. But it also means that I am different than many of you. I come from a different place. And I would not trade places.
When I lost little Tommy, I started going to a support group, "Sharing Parents". This group was a godsend, not just for me, but for my entire family. We all went, starting with Tommy's death and going through Val's. One meeting in particular stood out for me. We spoke of infant loss in general, with the speaker talking about doing funeral services for babies that were so young--miscarriages, really--that there was nothing to put in the coffin. The speaker went on to say that the parents have been forever changed, but they would never go back. It's the difference between being a virgin and getting married--you will never have the innocence again, but you would never want to go back to that naivete.
That's me. I have learned many lessons in my life, and I don't regret a single one. Not a single one. If it were possible, yes, I would prefer to have my husband and son with me, but I don't regret the experience. God became real to me in the pain. I felt this from an early age, and it has just increased over time. It was especially true in times of greatest need. For example, one day I was admitted to the hospital and it was determined that I needed to go in for gall bladder surgery. Nobody was able to come and be with me, and I was very alone and very scared. I keenly felt the loss of my husband. As the gurney came to carry me to surgery, I called out for God to be with me, and I felt his presence beside me, holding my hand as I went down the hallway. As I waited, it turned out that there was a complicating factor and I didn't get the surgery after all, but that sensation didn't go away. It stayed with me as long as I needed a friend, and then it eventually dissipated. Years later, my sister and my daughter were both at my side for my corneal transplant. I was happy because they were with me, but of course, they can't go with me into surgery. I was expecting God's hand to be there as I went down the hallway, and I was disappointed that I didn't feel it. I questioned it as I went, and I heard God's voice, "I will be there for you when you need it." Down we went to the operating room. I saw the door open, the blinding lights of the room--and there was God's hand, right at the moment of my need.
When I moved from Bakersfield to Tucson, this relationship suffered. For the first time since my youth, I was hurt and angry with God. I moved because I knew it was the right thing to do, but there was no human companionship, either at church, at school, or in my community. I realize now that I was very depressed and unable to reach out, but that was not something I could have helped at the time. I'm grateful for my son, David's, presence. But I've never felt so alone.
Slowly, gently, God took my hand once again. As the years passed, I realized that there was one person that I needed to get reacquainted with--myself. Through trial and error, with many steps backward and even more steps forward, I have been brought back to myself. I'm thankful for that. And as I've become more driven to write, I keep thinking, 'You have to write what you know.' And what I know is pain and loss. So I will not be afraid to write about pain and loss.
That doesn't mean that I will stop writing about other things. God has given me a brain, and quite an analytical one at that. I enjoy dissecting things. I enjoy the idea of lectio divina, reading through scripture many times, with different intent each time. I love exploring ideas. All these things are fun for me, and I will definitely blog about them.
But I do believe that my first published works will probably deal with loss, with pain, with grief, with emotional trauma. Write what you know. But why write about this doom-and-gloom stuff? Not to be maudlin, not to sink into the pit of despair. No, to paraphrase the verse, I suffered and I was comforted. And now I hope to write (and minister) to those who are suffering so that they can receive that same comfort that God gave me.
Going back to my training, when we finished and were preparing to go outside, one of the trainees remarked that the sun had come out. We walked out of the building into the still-wet street, and the sun was breaking through the clouds. I see both my writing and my ministry as that: staying with others and sharing the walk through the rain and darkness until the sun finally comes out and it is once again possible for them to walk alone. That's my goal. And I think it's a good one.
Her name was Vicki, and she was preceded by another very knowledgable woman who told us about mental health issues. She was very interesting--at a professional level. I was interested but not absorbed. Then Vicki spoke. This brave woman lost her 21-year-old son to suicide four years ago, and her story was riveting. She very forthrightly spoke about the mistakes that she made, the signs that she missed, and the grief that she was still experiencing. One thing that she said struck me to my very core. It was by no means the meat of the lecture, but it was life-changing for me. Forgive the paraphrase--it didn't occur to me to write it down. But it's fairly accurate.
"There are others around now who can also speak, and at first I thought I would pass the responsibility on to her, (but) I have assimilated the experience within myself. This is what I know. This is what I do."
Yes. Finally I understand my own calling. For years I have hesitated to write overly much about grief, death, suffering, but they are who I am. I have dealt with loss from before I can remember. I am 55, and in that time I have experienced the hospitalization of my mother numerous times, her stroke, heart failure and eventual death. I have dealt with depression and mental health issues in my own life and in the life of my family. I lost my mother at 15, lost one child through miscarriage and another through premature birth and eventual death, lost all my uncles and aunts and some cousins. My father died when I was 34 (not out of time for him--he was 81). My niece died when she was 20 and I was around 26. On and on it goes. But the most powerful loss that I experienced was the death of my husband when I was 35. I did not recover from that for many many years. You might say that I never will recover--you don't "get well" from grief. You learn to live with it and move on, but it never entirely goes away. Nor would I want it to. He was my husband, and I loved him.
So what does all this mean? Well, what it does not mean is that I go around with a cloud over my head all day every day. Most days, especially now, are pretty good. I can live from day to day with joy, because I understand that God is on the throne and I will see my loved ones again. But it also means that I am different than many of you. I come from a different place. And I would not trade places.
When I lost little Tommy, I started going to a support group, "Sharing Parents". This group was a godsend, not just for me, but for my entire family. We all went, starting with Tommy's death and going through Val's. One meeting in particular stood out for me. We spoke of infant loss in general, with the speaker talking about doing funeral services for babies that were so young--miscarriages, really--that there was nothing to put in the coffin. The speaker went on to say that the parents have been forever changed, but they would never go back. It's the difference between being a virgin and getting married--you will never have the innocence again, but you would never want to go back to that naivete.
That's me. I have learned many lessons in my life, and I don't regret a single one. Not a single one. If it were possible, yes, I would prefer to have my husband and son with me, but I don't regret the experience. God became real to me in the pain. I felt this from an early age, and it has just increased over time. It was especially true in times of greatest need. For example, one day I was admitted to the hospital and it was determined that I needed to go in for gall bladder surgery. Nobody was able to come and be with me, and I was very alone and very scared. I keenly felt the loss of my husband. As the gurney came to carry me to surgery, I called out for God to be with me, and I felt his presence beside me, holding my hand as I went down the hallway. As I waited, it turned out that there was a complicating factor and I didn't get the surgery after all, but that sensation didn't go away. It stayed with me as long as I needed a friend, and then it eventually dissipated. Years later, my sister and my daughter were both at my side for my corneal transplant. I was happy because they were with me, but of course, they can't go with me into surgery. I was expecting God's hand to be there as I went down the hallway, and I was disappointed that I didn't feel it. I questioned it as I went, and I heard God's voice, "I will be there for you when you need it." Down we went to the operating room. I saw the door open, the blinding lights of the room--and there was God's hand, right at the moment of my need.
When I moved from Bakersfield to Tucson, this relationship suffered. For the first time since my youth, I was hurt and angry with God. I moved because I knew it was the right thing to do, but there was no human companionship, either at church, at school, or in my community. I realize now that I was very depressed and unable to reach out, but that was not something I could have helped at the time. I'm grateful for my son, David's, presence. But I've never felt so alone.
Slowly, gently, God took my hand once again. As the years passed, I realized that there was one person that I needed to get reacquainted with--myself. Through trial and error, with many steps backward and even more steps forward, I have been brought back to myself. I'm thankful for that. And as I've become more driven to write, I keep thinking, 'You have to write what you know.' And what I know is pain and loss. So I will not be afraid to write about pain and loss.
That doesn't mean that I will stop writing about other things. God has given me a brain, and quite an analytical one at that. I enjoy dissecting things. I enjoy the idea of lectio divina, reading through scripture many times, with different intent each time. I love exploring ideas. All these things are fun for me, and I will definitely blog about them.
But I do believe that my first published works will probably deal with loss, with pain, with grief, with emotional trauma. Write what you know. But why write about this doom-and-gloom stuff? Not to be maudlin, not to sink into the pit of despair. No, to paraphrase the verse, I suffered and I was comforted. And now I hope to write (and minister) to those who are suffering so that they can receive that same comfort that God gave me.
Going back to my training, when we finished and were preparing to go outside, one of the trainees remarked that the sun had come out. We walked out of the building into the still-wet street, and the sun was breaking through the clouds. I see both my writing and my ministry as that: staying with others and sharing the walk through the rain and darkness until the sun finally comes out and it is once again possible for them to walk alone. That's my goal. And I think it's a good one.
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