So God performed a miracle Sunday night. I should not be surprised; I look forward to the day I am not. It's actually a little odd that I was surprised considering the fact that if I listed every single miracle God has performed in my life the list would be extensive indeed.
I'm not talking about blessings. If I started writing blessings it would fill a book. Sometimes people use the terms rather interchangeably and I'm cool with that. I consider my children miracles and blessings. But non-believers are having children all the time, completely oblivious to God's hand in their child's creation. How they do that is a mystery to me. I mean, not the having children part. I am aware of how all of that works although I think a few people doubted me on that score when I managed to have two children in less than thirteen months. I mean the witnessing of creation, of the birth of a brand new human being, its transformation from zygote to fetus to person in a mere nine months, and still having doubts about the presence of our Creator.
I'm talking about things that are inexplicable but for the power of God. Of people who have cancer suddenly being cancer free. Of babies hearts that were still beginning to beat. Seas parting, water to wine. That sort of thing. God is still moving in these ways all the time and He showed me that throughout Eddie's life in so many ways that this blog has yet to contain them.
Since Eddie I have been living in something of a miracle-free zone, too raw with grief and loss to seek the miraculous in my day to day life. I would happily discuss the miracles of my past but when present circumstances hit hard I felt more of a spirit of surrender than of petition and power. Luckily, God wasn't paying any attention to my zone and doled out lots of blessings and even a few miracles during that time. He has been calling me in past months, however. He has been telling me that my rest is over and that it is time again to ask, to expect, to believe.
When Baby Boy woke up Sunday morning, he wasn't exactly himself. No manifested illness yet, just unusually cranky and sensitive. Falling back on mother's intuition, I decided to stay home from church. By mid-afternoon, he had a stuffy nose and fever. I prayed for him, but not in a way that expected radical results. Just a quick prayer for his healing, his comfort, and wisdom for his care. We snuggled and watched movies. He drank lots of juice and managed to eat a little. Nothing scary. Just a sick kid.
That evening he had a low grade fever as he fell asleep. As is customary with that sort of thing, he woke up around midnight, very hot and crying. Baby Boy doesn't do sick well. He once had me preparing for a trip to the ER before I realized he just had gas. He's a tough guy when it comes to injury; he dislocated his thumb at preschool and kept on trucking. But when it comes to sick, he's a bit of a wiener. So I was bunkered in for a long night of crying, moaning, and other such carrying on. Not that I wasn't sympathetic; I hate it when my babies are sick and he was getting nothing but TLC. There was just another part of me that really wanted to go back to bed.
I started thinking about Eddie. About the long, restless nights when his body raged with infection and I could do nothing but hold him, murmur words of comfort and pray. I thought about the relief I always felt when his fevers would break, the kind that makes your knees go weak and your body quiver. I thanked God that this was not like that. That this was just a normal fever, an immune-builder for an otherwise healthy kid.
But then I looked at my little man's pained face and his tear-streaked cheeks and my heart just broke. I prayed. I put my hand on his head and prayed for God to take his fever and whatever was causing it away from him. That he be immediately and completely healed. Nothing happened. I felt a familiar disappointment creep in. One of those faithless, "seriously?" moments coming fast upon me. I felt like a failure. Because if the folks over at Bethel church in California can re-grow somebody's bones, make the lame walk and the blind see, why can't I fix a stinking flu?
God brought to my mind then something I'd read in Bill Johnson's book. He said he wasn't batting a thousand. That sometimes he prayed and it seemed like nothing happened. But he kept praying. He didn't let what might look like an unanswered prayer for one person keep him from praying for the next. I thought about persistence and the parable of the persistent widow. It's in Luke 18:1-8 and basically encourages us to bug God about the things on our hearts.
So I prayed again, not focusing this time on my son's tears but rather on God's truth. The truth is that no one in Redding, California is healing anybody; God is through them. And if He can use them, He can use me. So I stood on that truth, claiming my own power through the Holy Spirit and asking again that He heal Baby Boy's flu. I asked my husband to pray for him and he laid hands on him as well. We agreed in prayer for his healing.
At first, it seemed like nothing was going to happen but I was okay with that. I didn't feel anymore like I hadn't prayed right or enough. I had acknowledged that God had the power to heal Baby Boy through me and my husband and asked Him with thanksgiving to do so. I think that is all anybody can do and after that it either is God's will to grant your petition or not. But I kept my hand on my little boy, not praying any words but just staying in that blessed God-space with him. And, suddenly, I felt something. An ache in my whole body, like a low-level electrical current. It was uncomfortable and I almost withdrew from it, but I heard God's voice asking me if I wanted this or not. So I stayed there and let the power of the Holy Spirit course through me and into my son.
He quieted. I kissed his forehead and he was fever free. No sweating or shaking as usually accompanies a fever breaking. Just one moment he was burning up and the next he was cool as a cucumber. Twenty seconds later he saw a lightning flash outside and was out of bed, running from window to window to try and see another. He was hyper and happy, exclaiming, "Mommy, you get up with me? Daddy, you get up with me?" You would have never known he had been ill.
It's Tuesday now and Baby Boy has had no more signs of illness whatsoever. I was so happy because it meant we didn't have to miss Crazy Hat, Sock and Tie Day at school (it's the little things, you know?). I am happy because I've made another breakthrough, another baby step closer to a more complete knowledge and fellowship with the One who is Love. Who is Healer. Who is Helper. Who is God. I know Baby Boy would have gotten over whatever it was in time. A trip to the doctor, a few missed days of preschool. These things aren't a big deal. But what God is showing me is that it doesn't have to be a big deal to call Him in on it. That He is just as ready and able to heal a hang nail as He is to restore an amputated limb.
God spoke to me once shortly after Eddie died and told me I was free to carry my own burdens but it was like insisting on carrying my own groceries when the strongest man in the world was offering to lend me a hand. It's a good illustration (imagine that) and helps me with my worries, but I had never applied it in this context before. It encourages me to not except the expected anymore but to bring everything -- every piddling everyday thing -- to God with thanksgiving and to expect the miraculous to happen. Sometimes it won't, but what does that matter? I'm going to keep going, boldly and loudly, immune to embarrassment and full of childlike anticipation of when I will see the next flash of miraculous lightning.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
The Divine
We went to mass this past Sunday. Not church, where we have been going for the past two years or so, but mass at an honest to goodness Catholic church. We spent the weekend with my stepdaughters in Austin and the hotel we booked (Hotel Allandale -- highly recommend) was right across the street from a gigantic, beautiful cathedral. I knew instantly where I wanted to be Sunday morning.
You see I love cathedrals. I love stained glass and high ceilings, altars, alcoves and naves. I don't mind the odd gargoyle or two. There is something about walking into this kind of sanctuary that invokes awe and I need awe. I don't need to think for a moment that God and I stand on equal footing. That He is either as small as me or I am as big as He. That kind of thinking is dangerous and possibly lethal in effect. Awe is impossible without humility and I need to be humble at all costs.
I just read an article in which the author describes a Hindu temple he visited in Bali. Its deity is ensconced behind ten walls and how far one can travel into the temple is dependent on one's devotion. For example, non-Hindus cannot pass further than the first few rooms. Only those who have pledged their lives in complete devotion to this particular god are permitted into the inner sanctum.
I think it is perfectly obvious if you've been reading this blog that I am not a Hindu. I believe there is nothing in that tenth room except a statue. But the oblates of that temple believe it houses a god and they do not treat that belief casually. They aren't sitting in the inner sanctum popping their gum and whispering to their neighbor. They are worshipping with reverence and awe because that is what should be inspired when one is in the presence of the divine.
There is a real God and He is no less deserving of awe than that Hindu statue. He is the God of the Old Testament, upon whose face no one was permitted to look for fear of death. He appeared in clouds and burning bushes because mere human beings are not worthy to see Him. When Moses was granted the rare privilege of being present as God passed by, he came away from the encounter glowing with a radiance so bright that it frightened those at the camp.
I feel like a lot of Christians feel uncomfortable with this kind of a God. They think Christ's coming somehow made God friendlier or more accessible to us lowly mortals. I don't believe that. I believe Christ was God made man, both fully God and fully man. I believe that the Holy Spirit lives within us. Through that Spirit I believe we are able to more clearly know the will of God, to hear His voice. But I believe the nature of God the Father has never changed. He was, is and will always be bigger, better and more awesome than I can even begin to imagine. I think if He revealed Himself fully, showed me His face, that I would drop dead from lethal awesomeness.
I need to be reminded of that sometimes. I don't need to be comforted; I need to be humbled. I don't need to be comfortable; I need to experience the divine. And standing in St. Louis Catholic church Sunday morning, smelling the incense and looking at the grandeur of the cathedral, I felt so small, so insignificant, and so blessed. That the God of the universe even allows me to stand in His presence is an honor beyond imagining. I should be prostrate on the floor before Him, yet He lifts up my head.
I don't know where your awe-inspiring place is. I know many of you aren't Catholic and wouldn't want to be. But whatever reminds you, be it a church or a beautiful beach, that God is really, really big, I encourage you to go there. Often. Because we need awe and splendor in our lives. It pulls us up out of this mediocre life and lifts us up toward the divine even while we are bowing our heads. I want to approach God with worship and adoration, not casually and certainly not with a spirit of entitlement. He loves us enough to offer us entry into the inner sanctum, into His tenth room, everywhere and every day. And though I won't see His face when I enter in, I will experience Him, I will be in the presence of the divine and that is a privilege not to be taken for granted.
You see I love cathedrals. I love stained glass and high ceilings, altars, alcoves and naves. I don't mind the odd gargoyle or two. There is something about walking into this kind of sanctuary that invokes awe and I need awe. I don't need to think for a moment that God and I stand on equal footing. That He is either as small as me or I am as big as He. That kind of thinking is dangerous and possibly lethal in effect. Awe is impossible without humility and I need to be humble at all costs.
I just read an article in which the author describes a Hindu temple he visited in Bali. Its deity is ensconced behind ten walls and how far one can travel into the temple is dependent on one's devotion. For example, non-Hindus cannot pass further than the first few rooms. Only those who have pledged their lives in complete devotion to this particular god are permitted into the inner sanctum.
I think it is perfectly obvious if you've been reading this blog that I am not a Hindu. I believe there is nothing in that tenth room except a statue. But the oblates of that temple believe it houses a god and they do not treat that belief casually. They aren't sitting in the inner sanctum popping their gum and whispering to their neighbor. They are worshipping with reverence and awe because that is what should be inspired when one is in the presence of the divine.
There is a real God and He is no less deserving of awe than that Hindu statue. He is the God of the Old Testament, upon whose face no one was permitted to look for fear of death. He appeared in clouds and burning bushes because mere human beings are not worthy to see Him. When Moses was granted the rare privilege of being present as God passed by, he came away from the encounter glowing with a radiance so bright that it frightened those at the camp.
I feel like a lot of Christians feel uncomfortable with this kind of a God. They think Christ's coming somehow made God friendlier or more accessible to us lowly mortals. I don't believe that. I believe Christ was God made man, both fully God and fully man. I believe that the Holy Spirit lives within us. Through that Spirit I believe we are able to more clearly know the will of God, to hear His voice. But I believe the nature of God the Father has never changed. He was, is and will always be bigger, better and more awesome than I can even begin to imagine. I think if He revealed Himself fully, showed me His face, that I would drop dead from lethal awesomeness.
I need to be reminded of that sometimes. I don't need to be comforted; I need to be humbled. I don't need to be comfortable; I need to experience the divine. And standing in St. Louis Catholic church Sunday morning, smelling the incense and looking at the grandeur of the cathedral, I felt so small, so insignificant, and so blessed. That the God of the universe even allows me to stand in His presence is an honor beyond imagining. I should be prostrate on the floor before Him, yet He lifts up my head.
I don't know where your awe-inspiring place is. I know many of you aren't Catholic and wouldn't want to be. But whatever reminds you, be it a church or a beautiful beach, that God is really, really big, I encourage you to go there. Often. Because we need awe and splendor in our lives. It pulls us up out of this mediocre life and lifts us up toward the divine even while we are bowing our heads. I want to approach God with worship and adoration, not casually and certainly not with a spirit of entitlement. He loves us enough to offer us entry into the inner sanctum, into His tenth room, everywhere and every day. And though I won't see His face when I enter in, I will experience Him, I will be in the presence of the divine and that is a privilege not to be taken for granted.
Monday, January 2, 2012
Resolved
I used to make New Year's resolutions. Lots and lots of New Year's resolutions. It was not unusual for me to start the new year with a list of "to do" or "not to do"s that was a legal-sized page long. In my semi-adult years, the resolve to decrease drinking or quit altogether was usually #1 on the list... and usually the first one broken. Eating better and working out more were always somewhere in there as well as promises to read my daily devotional without fail.
The other twenty or so varied over the years. From the extremely specific, as in my attempts to solve my perpetual bed head issues ("I resolve to wash my hair in the morning rather than the evenings"), to the impossibly vague ("I resolve to be a better person in [insert year here]"), I was a resolution junkie. I'd usually rediscover the list sometime in the spring, while nursing a hangover and a bad case of bed head, crumple it up and throw it away in a fit of self-deprecating despair. I was the queen of good intentions and we all know which road is paved with those.
So I finally scaled down and started just having one resolution. One year I remember it was "I resolve to stop worrying." It was a good idea in theory. I would catch myself worrying, however, and proceed to worry about the fact that I was worrying. It was a distinctly neurotic year.
I'm not sure in which year I stopped making resolutions. I don't remember making any in 2004, but, then again, I don't remember much about 2004 at all. 2005 was earmarked with sobriety and I think that probably took all the resolve that I had in me. After that, "one day at a time" took over and, really, every day has been a new year of sorts for me since then. A new chance, a fresh start every morning. I haven't made a specific resolution since, just lots of prayers with a few intentions thrown in.
Looking back, though, I'm pleased that I'm living out a lot of those old resolutions. I have healthy eating habits (for the most part) and I'm active and getting fit. I haven't had a drink in over six years. I still tend to sleep on wet hair, but I'm not really worried about that. In fact, I'm not really worried about anything most of the time and that's a great place to be.
It's not that my resolve suddenly got stronger or my will power greater. It's not that some outside force suddenly gave me the motivation that I needed to be the person I wanted to be when I would make those laundry lists of self-improvements. It's that I took my focus off all of that and started seeking God. In Matthew 6:33 Jesus says, "Seek ye first the kingdom of God and His righteousness and all these things shall be added unto you." It's right after He said that you don't have to worry about anything, not what you'll eat or what you'll wear, nothing at all. So when I started seeking, He started giving. He took away my desire for alcohol. He gave me an appetite for good, healthy food and provided the means to acquire it. He has planted the desire in my heart to run and jump and be active. It's awesome. When He said "all these things," He meant it. He can and will take care of everything if you just bring your heart to Him.
Though I love myself, who I am in Christ, there is certainly room for improvement. When I say I eat healthy food, I am of course not mentioning the bowl of caramel popcorn I just inhaled at 11:30 this morning. My housekeeping skills leave much to be desired and I am hopelessly disorganized. When I open my closet door I instinctively take a step back in case something falls out of it. I fail to show grace when I should and say a lot of things that I shouldn't. I am a mess, just like any other human being. But I'm resolved. My resolution, not only for 2012, but for every single day for the rest of my life, is always going to be the same. I'm going to seek God. I'm going to bring my faults and failings, lay them at the foot of the cross, and trust that He can take care of it all. That He loves me, just as I am, and that His mercy endures in 2012 and beyond. Happy New Year!
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Naughty
My kids were crazy yesterday. They are always a little crazy but yesterday they were bananas. I don't know if it is post-birthday party let down or pre-Christmas morning madness but they just could not get along. They would play nicely for a while then explode. I think there was more whining, crying, slapping, and toy throwing in a single eight hour period than in their entire past lives combined. They seriously earned their ways onto the naughty list.
Mid-afternoon, exhausted from coming up with new and interesting consequences (they had already had a couple time outs a piece and lost their outing to Half Price Books to hear The Polar Express and see Santa), I told them that quite frankly they had worn their mother out. The next time anyone hit anyone else they were both getting a spanking. Since those don't happen in our house with any kind of frequency, I explained that this meant I was going to hit each of them on their bottoms. Baby Boy looked at me and giggled. "That's a good story, Mom," he said. Somehow I managed not to laugh.
I prayed I would not have to follow through with my threat. I don't spank and I was a little disappointed in myself for resorting to it even as a threat, since I would have to follow through if they earned a consequence. Luckily, there was no more violence. There was some more whining and general bad behavior shortly thereafter and I determined that perhaps everyone needed to spend some quiet time in their beds. Baby Boy promptly fell asleep. Baby Girl calmed down and announced, "Mommy, I happy!" after twenty minutes or so of quiet time. The rest of our day was without incident and, thankfully, without spankings.
Today my children are the precious, if precocious, little munchkins I know and love rather than the mini monsters of yesterday. I'm a grateful mommy, not only since I have hope of a happier and less tiring day, but because of the gift of the Holy Spirit. Thanks to Him, yesterday was an unremarkable day, not even distinguished by a rare spanking, much less by the full-on melt-down fit that I at one point was tempted to throw. I did not say or do anything to my children that required so much as an apology. It is nothing short of a miracle, since, like any parent, there were times when I really, really, really wanted to blow my top and/or run screaming down the street.
I'm an awful person, really. I have an explosive, ugly, rage-filled temper. I'm terribly impatient. I'm selfish, the kind of selfish that would abandon all responsibility to pursue my own pleasure above all else and not look back. It's true. The reason I bring it all up is that my children have no idea about any of that. They know I can get mad (or "cross" as Baby Boy puts it), but they don't know I'm capable of a berserker kind of rage. The idea of me inflicting harm on them, even something as mild as swat on the bottom, seems far-fetched and downright silly. If they had a concept of patience, I think that they would attest that I am full of it. And I love them way more than myself and I think that they know it.
None of it is in my power. I shudder to think what kind of parent I would be without God's help. I'm not proud of myself for my reactions yesterday; I'm grateful to God. Grateful for the ability to take a step back, take a deep breath, and ask the Holy Spirit for a next move. Because that is what I do, everyday and so many times on days like yesterday that I can't even count. I'm not a perfect parent. I say things I shouldn't say, model behaviors I shouldn't model, just like everybody else. But I'm perfect-er than I ever thought I could be, because I am guided by One without flaw, with all wisdom, with keen sight and perfect judgment. No matter how many parenting books I've read (and I've read a lot) none of that knowledge is equivalent to having a manifestation of God living within me, just waiting to tell me what to do, how to respond, what words to say.
I'm going to mess up sometimes; there will be days when it is Mommy who is decidedly naughty. When that happens I'm going to apologize. Then I'm going to show myself grace, because I want to teach grace. I want to model it. I want them to learn what it looks like and how it feels on good days and on bad ones. Because God gives us grace, whether we deserve it or not. He doesn't keep a naughty or nice list; His gifts are without condition. He wants us to behave because we love Him, not because we fear Him. We're all going to have days where we are terrible and we need some quiet time to get right. Then we'll have those days when we are good and make the right choices. God's love is the same both days. I want to get a revelation of that and pass it on to my children. So this is my prayer this morning: I want my children to know that my love for them is changeless, on the challenging days and on the easy ones, whether they be naughty or nice, so that they might learn by example the character and nature of God's amazing grace.
Mid-afternoon, exhausted from coming up with new and interesting consequences (they had already had a couple time outs a piece and lost their outing to Half Price Books to hear The Polar Express and see Santa), I told them that quite frankly they had worn their mother out. The next time anyone hit anyone else they were both getting a spanking. Since those don't happen in our house with any kind of frequency, I explained that this meant I was going to hit each of them on their bottoms. Baby Boy looked at me and giggled. "That's a good story, Mom," he said. Somehow I managed not to laugh.
I prayed I would not have to follow through with my threat. I don't spank and I was a little disappointed in myself for resorting to it even as a threat, since I would have to follow through if they earned a consequence. Luckily, there was no more violence. There was some more whining and general bad behavior shortly thereafter and I determined that perhaps everyone needed to spend some quiet time in their beds. Baby Boy promptly fell asleep. Baby Girl calmed down and announced, "Mommy, I happy!" after twenty minutes or so of quiet time. The rest of our day was without incident and, thankfully, without spankings.
Today my children are the precious, if precocious, little munchkins I know and love rather than the mini monsters of yesterday. I'm a grateful mommy, not only since I have hope of a happier and less tiring day, but because of the gift of the Holy Spirit. Thanks to Him, yesterday was an unremarkable day, not even distinguished by a rare spanking, much less by the full-on melt-down fit that I at one point was tempted to throw. I did not say or do anything to my children that required so much as an apology. It is nothing short of a miracle, since, like any parent, there were times when I really, really, really wanted to blow my top and/or run screaming down the street.
I'm an awful person, really. I have an explosive, ugly, rage-filled temper. I'm terribly impatient. I'm selfish, the kind of selfish that would abandon all responsibility to pursue my own pleasure above all else and not look back. It's true. The reason I bring it all up is that my children have no idea about any of that. They know I can get mad (or "cross" as Baby Boy puts it), but they don't know I'm capable of a berserker kind of rage. The idea of me inflicting harm on them, even something as mild as swat on the bottom, seems far-fetched and downright silly. If they had a concept of patience, I think that they would attest that I am full of it. And I love them way more than myself and I think that they know it.
None of it is in my power. I shudder to think what kind of parent I would be without God's help. I'm not proud of myself for my reactions yesterday; I'm grateful to God. Grateful for the ability to take a step back, take a deep breath, and ask the Holy Spirit for a next move. Because that is what I do, everyday and so many times on days like yesterday that I can't even count. I'm not a perfect parent. I say things I shouldn't say, model behaviors I shouldn't model, just like everybody else. But I'm perfect-er than I ever thought I could be, because I am guided by One without flaw, with all wisdom, with keen sight and perfect judgment. No matter how many parenting books I've read (and I've read a lot) none of that knowledge is equivalent to having a manifestation of God living within me, just waiting to tell me what to do, how to respond, what words to say.
I'm going to mess up sometimes; there will be days when it is Mommy who is decidedly naughty. When that happens I'm going to apologize. Then I'm going to show myself grace, because I want to teach grace. I want to model it. I want them to learn what it looks like and how it feels on good days and on bad ones. Because God gives us grace, whether we deserve it or not. He doesn't keep a naughty or nice list; His gifts are without condition. He wants us to behave because we love Him, not because we fear Him. We're all going to have days where we are terrible and we need some quiet time to get right. Then we'll have those days when we are good and make the right choices. God's love is the same both days. I want to get a revelation of that and pass it on to my children. So this is my prayer this morning: I want my children to know that my love for them is changeless, on the challenging days and on the easy ones, whether they be naughty or nice, so that they might learn by example the character and nature of God's amazing grace.
Friday, December 16, 2011
A Peaceful Abode
Peace is a big concept around this time of year. We see it written in fancy script on snowflake-laden greeting cards. We sing, like the angels, "Peace on the earth, goodwill toward men." There are images of cozy fireplaces and old-fashioned Christmas trees shining in dimly lit rooms. The idea of peace is big at Christmas.
But, as we all know, while popular, peace is not very prevalent. Ask most people how they are during this time of year and the answer is: STRESSED OUT. "How are you?" is replaced by "Have you finished your Christmas shopping?" or "Are you ready for Christmas?" as the most frequently asked question. And people out there are nasty. They are cutting each other off in traffic, laying on their horns, pushing past fellow shoppers to get to the latest sale item. In the air there's a feeling of grumpiness. I took my kids to see the big Christmas tree at the Dallas Galleria and it was downright scary. It made me want to hide in my house and order food from the Schwans man until December 27th or so.
I was given a gift early this year. God graced me with illness just before Thanksgiving, so I would take a step back and reevaluate my holiday priorities. He gifted me with financial difficulty so that I could opt out of the consumer-driven American Christmas madness. And, you know what? It's been awesome. Fun. Peaceful.
It's not that we've toned down this Christmas. Our house is the most Griswald-like on our block with our brilliant yard decorations that shine so brightly by night that my children no longer need a night light in their room. Their window is filled with a incandescent glow reminiscent of an alien landing. There is not a room in our house where you will not find something Santa-related or a snowman (my personal favorite holiday friend). We've watched Elf, The Christmas Story, Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer, and Frosty the Snowman... repeatedly. My kids have sat upon Santa's knee and told him what they want for Christmas: two babies and a school bus, respectively.
So it's not that I'm not participating in Christmas. It's that I'm not worrying about Christmas. I'm not stressed. I'm happy. I have moments where I start to panic with upcoming preschool parties, play-dates, and both children's birthdays thrown into the mix. But I take a deep breath and remember that if I don't have time to make a cookie tray it's going to be okay. If I don't have time to make those really cute reindeer treats I saw on Pinterest, I can bring candy canes from the Dollar Store. My kids would rather have a happy mommy than a domestic diva.
A year or so ago I read a scripture that really struck me. It is Isaiah 33:20 and says: "Look upon Zion, the city of our festivals; your eyes will see Jerusalem, a peaceful abode, a tent that will not be moved; its stakes will never be pulled up, nor any of its ropes broken." At the time, I looked upon my home, the "city" of my festivals, and what I saw seemed neither peaceful nor permanent. Though we were putting on a good face, things were tense at the Espinoza house and it seemed at any moment either Phillip or myself could pull up stakes and move on, breaking a rope or two on our way out. I wept and prayed. I asked God for our home to be a peaceful abode. I made those words, "a peaceful abode," my computer screensaver so that I would remember to be intentional in this prayer.
A couple of weeks ago I was sitting at the computer (probably looking up those aforementioned reindeer treats) and my screen saver popped up. There were the words "a peaceful abode," spinning slowly across my screen, and I realized that my prayer had been answered. I don't remember the moment we went from grumpy to grateful, from pissed to peaceful, but somewhere in the past year, by God's grace, it happened. Looking at those words as a promise answered instead of a petition was a wonderful moment for me. It was like God winked at me and whispered, "Merry Christmas."
The most important of our Christmas traditions happens each evening. We light candles for Advent, sit together as a family and sing songs. We read books and then we tell the story of Jesus' birth. We laugh and rejoice together. While the kids may not understand fully that the birth of this one little baby boy is the reason our house is filled with joy and peace, my husband and I do, and we know that we are planting seeds of faith even while singing "Jingle Bells" at the top of our lungs.
On Christmas morning, my children are going to have gifts to open (at least two babies and a school bus), but the greatest gift has already been given to them. And because of this greatest gift, the gift of a Messiah who loves us without condition, they have spent this holiday season in a home characterized by peace. By joy. By love. This Christmas I re-gift my children a peaceful abode and I know that it is something they will carry with them for the rest of their lives. So on this "one week until Christmas" morning, I wish you a merry Christmas, but beyond that I wish you a peaceful Christmas. I wish you lots of hugs and laughter. Lots of moments where you are more aware of the peaceful, beautiful, wonderful presence of Jesus than you are of the hustle and bustle of the Christmas crowd. Peace in your home, goodwill toward men, and a hosanna in the highest to the One whose birth we celebrate and whose love is never ending.
But, as we all know, while popular, peace is not very prevalent. Ask most people how they are during this time of year and the answer is: STRESSED OUT. "How are you?" is replaced by "Have you finished your Christmas shopping?" or "Are you ready for Christmas?" as the most frequently asked question. And people out there are nasty. They are cutting each other off in traffic, laying on their horns, pushing past fellow shoppers to get to the latest sale item. In the air there's a feeling of grumpiness. I took my kids to see the big Christmas tree at the Dallas Galleria and it was downright scary. It made me want to hide in my house and order food from the Schwans man until December 27th or so.
I was given a gift early this year. God graced me with illness just before Thanksgiving, so I would take a step back and reevaluate my holiday priorities. He gifted me with financial difficulty so that I could opt out of the consumer-driven American Christmas madness. And, you know what? It's been awesome. Fun. Peaceful.
It's not that we've toned down this Christmas. Our house is the most Griswald-like on our block with our brilliant yard decorations that shine so brightly by night that my children no longer need a night light in their room. Their window is filled with a incandescent glow reminiscent of an alien landing. There is not a room in our house where you will not find something Santa-related or a snowman (my personal favorite holiday friend). We've watched Elf, The Christmas Story, Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer, and Frosty the Snowman... repeatedly. My kids have sat upon Santa's knee and told him what they want for Christmas: two babies and a school bus, respectively.
So it's not that I'm not participating in Christmas. It's that I'm not worrying about Christmas. I'm not stressed. I'm happy. I have moments where I start to panic with upcoming preschool parties, play-dates, and both children's birthdays thrown into the mix. But I take a deep breath and remember that if I don't have time to make a cookie tray it's going to be okay. If I don't have time to make those really cute reindeer treats I saw on Pinterest, I can bring candy canes from the Dollar Store. My kids would rather have a happy mommy than a domestic diva.
A year or so ago I read a scripture that really struck me. It is Isaiah 33:20 and says: "Look upon Zion, the city of our festivals; your eyes will see Jerusalem, a peaceful abode, a tent that will not be moved; its stakes will never be pulled up, nor any of its ropes broken." At the time, I looked upon my home, the "city" of my festivals, and what I saw seemed neither peaceful nor permanent. Though we were putting on a good face, things were tense at the Espinoza house and it seemed at any moment either Phillip or myself could pull up stakes and move on, breaking a rope or two on our way out. I wept and prayed. I asked God for our home to be a peaceful abode. I made those words, "a peaceful abode," my computer screensaver so that I would remember to be intentional in this prayer.
A couple of weeks ago I was sitting at the computer (probably looking up those aforementioned reindeer treats) and my screen saver popped up. There were the words "a peaceful abode," spinning slowly across my screen, and I realized that my prayer had been answered. I don't remember the moment we went from grumpy to grateful, from pissed to peaceful, but somewhere in the past year, by God's grace, it happened. Looking at those words as a promise answered instead of a petition was a wonderful moment for me. It was like God winked at me and whispered, "Merry Christmas."
The most important of our Christmas traditions happens each evening. We light candles for Advent, sit together as a family and sing songs. We read books and then we tell the story of Jesus' birth. We laugh and rejoice together. While the kids may not understand fully that the birth of this one little baby boy is the reason our house is filled with joy and peace, my husband and I do, and we know that we are planting seeds of faith even while singing "Jingle Bells" at the top of our lungs.
On Christmas morning, my children are going to have gifts to open (at least two babies and a school bus), but the greatest gift has already been given to them. And because of this greatest gift, the gift of a Messiah who loves us without condition, they have spent this holiday season in a home characterized by peace. By joy. By love. This Christmas I re-gift my children a peaceful abode and I know that it is something they will carry with them for the rest of their lives. So on this "one week until Christmas" morning, I wish you a merry Christmas, but beyond that I wish you a peaceful Christmas. I wish you lots of hugs and laughter. Lots of moments where you are more aware of the peaceful, beautiful, wonderful presence of Jesus than you are of the hustle and bustle of the Christmas crowd. Peace in your home, goodwill toward men, and a hosanna in the highest to the One whose birth we celebrate and whose love is never ending.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
No Matter What
So on the spiritual front, things have been pretty extreme lately. Not bad, per se, just challenging. God's been growing me and growth is painful.
For starters, since Thanksgiving my asthma has been flaring up. I cough; I have difficulty breathing. At the end of the day I am exhausted from a day full of shallow breathing but can't sleep because I can't stop coughing. It's awful. My emergency inhaler is offering little to no relief. I remember that this happened last year at the very same time and I went to the doctor a few days after Christmas to get back on Advair. I don't like Advair or any of the other regulating steroids prescribed for asthma. If you choose to take it I'm not judging; they just have some long term effects that make me shudder. Still, I need to breathe, so I've almost called up my D.O. several times. When it comes time to pick up the phone, though, I feel a Holy Spirit nudge to put the phone down.
I think God wants to heal my asthma. Not just temporarily relieve the symptoms, but actually take the condition away from me entirely. And I think He wants to do it on faith alone, no interventions either traditional or holistic. I rejoice in this revelation. When it came down to praying on it, though, God opened up a whole can of worms in my spirit that we needed to address. Because I believe in healing. Radical, miraculous faith healing that comes from the power of the Holy Spirit and the holy name of Jesus Christ. It would be really strange if I didn't considering how many times I saw God lift my son out of illness and medically certain death. But I find that, since Eddie's death, doubt and disbelief have invaded my spirit like a cancer, stealthily and without my even realizing it.
I've been praying for healing, but it is with this internal shrug like, "Well, I'm praying for it but I realize it's probably not something you really want to do." That is nothing but disbelief clothed as acceptance, a wolf in sheep's clothing. I started reading a book by Bill Johnson (love it, by the way) that a friend gave to me. Not five pages into this thing, I'm reading about a radical healing miracle, where God re-grew a man's bone in his leg and healed cancer in his neck. I burst into tears. I believe, I know, God did that and does other things like it all of the time. I believe that the miraculous should be common place among followers of Christ. But it hurts. Because at the end of the day, Eddie did not receive a new liver. His small intestine didn't grow a few feet and start absorbing nutrition. He's not sitting in my lap right now as a living testimony to the healing power of Christ. And that really, really hurts.
So I've been avoiding the pain. I don't go to churches where they lay hands on people as a matter of course. I don't pray the Holy Spirit down on my family when they are ill; I just say a perfunctory "Please God touch and heal {insert name here} in the name of Jesus Christ, by whose stripes we are healed" and then wait for the virus to take its course. I'm embarrassed to admit that, but it's true. I pray for my kids but I don't believe anything out of the ordinary is going to take place after I do so. They haven't had any crazy, life-threatening stuff (thank you, Lord) so it's been easy to be in mediocre belief for their health.
God doesn't want my faith to reside in mediocrity. I know that. So I kept reading. I kept crying. I kept throwing myself on the mercy of God. This is spiritual warfare and my battle cry became the cry of the father in Mark 9:24 who shouted out to Christ, "I believe! Help my unbelief!" I began to pray in earnest over my lungs, crying down the power of heaven into my circumstances, standing on God's healing promises, feeling His power enter into my body, physically, like a fire raging through me. I haven't prayed like this since my baby died and it was hard and done with weeping, both of gratitude and pain. It was like God was entering into me, searing me with Holy Fire, cauterizing the gaping wounds that I didn't even know were there. Every time I prayed like this, my lungs would open and I would breathe. By that night, though, the symptoms would be back.
I accepted it. I accepted that God was working something so much more powerful in me than just a simple physical healing so, although it is inconvenient and uncomfortable, I'm bearing with it. I'm praying on it. I'm believing on it because He said He wants to heal this so HE IS GOING TO. I don't have to know what the hold up is. I can believe and accept that His timing is perfect and going to bring about even more growth, more glory.
It was with this mindset that I went to Sojourn church this past Wednesday morning. There is a ladies group there that I love to meet with whenever I can. They love the Lord so much and lift each other up in Him so powerfully. I knew there would be women there who would lay hands on me and pray, so I went with the intention of asking for prayer, of receiving. As soon as I walked through the doors of the prayer room, though, I heard a conversation going on between two women about healing. About what does it mean when you pray for the healing, when you believe, and when you don't receive. At first I was just going to sit and listen, thinking God had a word for me from these two women. Then God spoke to my Spirit and told me to get in there. So I joined the conversation.
Something miraculous happened. All of a sudden, God began to pour out of me from all that He has been pouring into me over the past week. Words began coming out of my mouth, words of faith, words of comfort, words of Truth. He wasn't only speaking to this woman who needed to hear what He had to say, He was speaking to me through me. It was a rather out-of-body experience. What she needed to hear and I needed to reiterate is that God is good no matter what. If He seems to be withholding something it is not because He is mean, unloving, or doesn't care. It isn't because we aren't praying right or believing enough. It is because He wills something so much greater for us than the thing we are asking for. It is because He loves us too much to grant our request. She said she just needed to see the Hand of God in her situation, that she needed His hand, and I was able to say with all confidence, "No, you don't, you only need His Presence." I told her if I had been healed of asthma this week, I would not have been positioned to talk to her and that I was grateful that God had placed me in her life that morning, exactly as I was, dealing with the same issues and able to share His Truth.
Bill Johnson talks about "thy kingdom come" being about calling the power of heaven down to earth and thereby performing miracles in His name. I believe that. He is speaking Truth. It is also truth that the next line is "thy will be done." So if you have asked for His intervention and you do not receive, you can still trust that there is something greater in the works for you. Our will is hopelessly flawed; His is infinitely good. What I shared yesterday and what I believe, totally, completely, and with my whole heart, mind, and spirit is that God is good no matter what. All the time. He loves us all the time, in every circumstance, in every affliction, in every trial.
It is God's will that I be miraculously healed from asthma. I know this because He told me so. It was also His will that Eddie die on that early Saturday morning in August 2007. I don't know all the reasons and I don't need to. I believe that it was for a greater good, not just for others but for me as well, because God only loves me. This much I do know: because Eddie died, I am positioned to be a light to people who prayed and lost. Who believed and then suffered. I am able to speak about the amazing, overwhelming goodness of God from a position of strength because I have been there. I know that this has great value and enables me to serve my Lord in a radical, wonderful way that brings me great joy. I know I have peace, I know I am beloved, and I know I have a grateful heart. I know I have a little boy waiting for me who will be pleased that I took the gift that was his life and held it up as a beacon of God's love. So, I'm going to wait on the Lord, not in impatience, not with an entitlement attitude, not in fear, but in grateful expectancy of how He is going to shower me with love. I'm going to praise Him for sealing up those cracks in my faith, those wounds of disbelief, through whatever means was necessary.
After my powerful, Spirit-filled morning on Wednesday, I promptly developed food poisoning. I know what this is. It's the enemy's pathetic attempt to make me throw my hands in the air, disavow everything I just told that woman, and go back to an attitude of, "Really, God? Seriously?" It didn't work. I laughed at satan and told him how pathetic he was. That disbelief had no power over me. I praised God for an excuse to be still and spend time with Him. Don't get me wrong; physically I felt like death warmed over. But it has passed and because of it I spent hours with God that I otherwise would have spent in business. What satan meant for evil, God used for good, because I trust Him. No matter what. And that is all I need to do.
For starters, since Thanksgiving my asthma has been flaring up. I cough; I have difficulty breathing. At the end of the day I am exhausted from a day full of shallow breathing but can't sleep because I can't stop coughing. It's awful. My emergency inhaler is offering little to no relief. I remember that this happened last year at the very same time and I went to the doctor a few days after Christmas to get back on Advair. I don't like Advair or any of the other regulating steroids prescribed for asthma. If you choose to take it I'm not judging; they just have some long term effects that make me shudder. Still, I need to breathe, so I've almost called up my D.O. several times. When it comes time to pick up the phone, though, I feel a Holy Spirit nudge to put the phone down.
I think God wants to heal my asthma. Not just temporarily relieve the symptoms, but actually take the condition away from me entirely. And I think He wants to do it on faith alone, no interventions either traditional or holistic. I rejoice in this revelation. When it came down to praying on it, though, God opened up a whole can of worms in my spirit that we needed to address. Because I believe in healing. Radical, miraculous faith healing that comes from the power of the Holy Spirit and the holy name of Jesus Christ. It would be really strange if I didn't considering how many times I saw God lift my son out of illness and medically certain death. But I find that, since Eddie's death, doubt and disbelief have invaded my spirit like a cancer, stealthily and without my even realizing it.
I've been praying for healing, but it is with this internal shrug like, "Well, I'm praying for it but I realize it's probably not something you really want to do." That is nothing but disbelief clothed as acceptance, a wolf in sheep's clothing. I started reading a book by Bill Johnson (love it, by the way) that a friend gave to me. Not five pages into this thing, I'm reading about a radical healing miracle, where God re-grew a man's bone in his leg and healed cancer in his neck. I burst into tears. I believe, I know, God did that and does other things like it all of the time. I believe that the miraculous should be common place among followers of Christ. But it hurts. Because at the end of the day, Eddie did not receive a new liver. His small intestine didn't grow a few feet and start absorbing nutrition. He's not sitting in my lap right now as a living testimony to the healing power of Christ. And that really, really hurts.
So I've been avoiding the pain. I don't go to churches where they lay hands on people as a matter of course. I don't pray the Holy Spirit down on my family when they are ill; I just say a perfunctory "Please God touch and heal {insert name here} in the name of Jesus Christ, by whose stripes we are healed" and then wait for the virus to take its course. I'm embarrassed to admit that, but it's true. I pray for my kids but I don't believe anything out of the ordinary is going to take place after I do so. They haven't had any crazy, life-threatening stuff (thank you, Lord) so it's been easy to be in mediocre belief for their health.
God doesn't want my faith to reside in mediocrity. I know that. So I kept reading. I kept crying. I kept throwing myself on the mercy of God. This is spiritual warfare and my battle cry became the cry of the father in Mark 9:24 who shouted out to Christ, "I believe! Help my unbelief!" I began to pray in earnest over my lungs, crying down the power of heaven into my circumstances, standing on God's healing promises, feeling His power enter into my body, physically, like a fire raging through me. I haven't prayed like this since my baby died and it was hard and done with weeping, both of gratitude and pain. It was like God was entering into me, searing me with Holy Fire, cauterizing the gaping wounds that I didn't even know were there. Every time I prayed like this, my lungs would open and I would breathe. By that night, though, the symptoms would be back.
I accepted it. I accepted that God was working something so much more powerful in me than just a simple physical healing so, although it is inconvenient and uncomfortable, I'm bearing with it. I'm praying on it. I'm believing on it because He said He wants to heal this so HE IS GOING TO. I don't have to know what the hold up is. I can believe and accept that His timing is perfect and going to bring about even more growth, more glory.
It was with this mindset that I went to Sojourn church this past Wednesday morning. There is a ladies group there that I love to meet with whenever I can. They love the Lord so much and lift each other up in Him so powerfully. I knew there would be women there who would lay hands on me and pray, so I went with the intention of asking for prayer, of receiving. As soon as I walked through the doors of the prayer room, though, I heard a conversation going on between two women about healing. About what does it mean when you pray for the healing, when you believe, and when you don't receive. At first I was just going to sit and listen, thinking God had a word for me from these two women. Then God spoke to my Spirit and told me to get in there. So I joined the conversation.
Something miraculous happened. All of a sudden, God began to pour out of me from all that He has been pouring into me over the past week. Words began coming out of my mouth, words of faith, words of comfort, words of Truth. He wasn't only speaking to this woman who needed to hear what He had to say, He was speaking to me through me. It was a rather out-of-body experience. What she needed to hear and I needed to reiterate is that God is good no matter what. If He seems to be withholding something it is not because He is mean, unloving, or doesn't care. It isn't because we aren't praying right or believing enough. It is because He wills something so much greater for us than the thing we are asking for. It is because He loves us too much to grant our request. She said she just needed to see the Hand of God in her situation, that she needed His hand, and I was able to say with all confidence, "No, you don't, you only need His Presence." I told her if I had been healed of asthma this week, I would not have been positioned to talk to her and that I was grateful that God had placed me in her life that morning, exactly as I was, dealing with the same issues and able to share His Truth.
Bill Johnson talks about "thy kingdom come" being about calling the power of heaven down to earth and thereby performing miracles in His name. I believe that. He is speaking Truth. It is also truth that the next line is "thy will be done." So if you have asked for His intervention and you do not receive, you can still trust that there is something greater in the works for you. Our will is hopelessly flawed; His is infinitely good. What I shared yesterday and what I believe, totally, completely, and with my whole heart, mind, and spirit is that God is good no matter what. All the time. He loves us all the time, in every circumstance, in every affliction, in every trial.
It is God's will that I be miraculously healed from asthma. I know this because He told me so. It was also His will that Eddie die on that early Saturday morning in August 2007. I don't know all the reasons and I don't need to. I believe that it was for a greater good, not just for others but for me as well, because God only loves me. This much I do know: because Eddie died, I am positioned to be a light to people who prayed and lost. Who believed and then suffered. I am able to speak about the amazing, overwhelming goodness of God from a position of strength because I have been there. I know that this has great value and enables me to serve my Lord in a radical, wonderful way that brings me great joy. I know I have peace, I know I am beloved, and I know I have a grateful heart. I know I have a little boy waiting for me who will be pleased that I took the gift that was his life and held it up as a beacon of God's love. So, I'm going to wait on the Lord, not in impatience, not with an entitlement attitude, not in fear, but in grateful expectancy of how He is going to shower me with love. I'm going to praise Him for sealing up those cracks in my faith, those wounds of disbelief, through whatever means was necessary.
After my powerful, Spirit-filled morning on Wednesday, I promptly developed food poisoning. I know what this is. It's the enemy's pathetic attempt to make me throw my hands in the air, disavow everything I just told that woman, and go back to an attitude of, "Really, God? Seriously?" It didn't work. I laughed at satan and told him how pathetic he was. That disbelief had no power over me. I praised God for an excuse to be still and spend time with Him. Don't get me wrong; physically I felt like death warmed over. But it has passed and because of it I spent hours with God that I otherwise would have spent in business. What satan meant for evil, God used for good, because I trust Him. No matter what. And that is all I need to do.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Crazy for Him
I have a confession to make. I have been holding back a little when it comes to this blog. Not a lot, but a little. I've tried to discuss my faith and my experiences candidly but sometimes when I get to saying or sharing certain things I balk. Not because they are too personal (I am the self-proclaimed queen of the over-share) nor because I'm embarrassed or ashamed. No, it's because I don't want people to think I'm crazy. Like, certifiably nuts.
I used to not care about this at all. In fact, shock-value was something I highly prized. But I no longer like to shock just for the sake of shocking; I don't like to make people uncomfortable if I can avoid it. And to be honest, when you tell the average person something like, "God told me..." or "God said the funniest thing the other day..." you get a reaction that ranges in subtlety from a mere double blink of the eyes to an all out recoiling in horror. I talk to God and, here's the cool part, He talks back to me. All the time. Some times in a still, small voice in my head (see, I said "voice in my head"; the men in white coats are on their way for me as we speak), sometimes in a deep sense of knowing in my gut, sometimes audibly. Yes, audibly. And some people might think that is crazy, but it also happens to be true.
God talked in the Bible all the time. I'm not sure why the feeling in modern day is that He suddenly just shut up and let other people do the talking for Him. He spoke so clearly to Samuel that he got up several times to ask Eli what he wanted from him, only to discover it was God's voice, not Eli's, he was hearing. God talks.
He also does lots of other crazy things. He heals. He raises people from the dead. He casts out demons (I believe in demons; angels too... wow, this is getting fun). He makes cars pass through each other rather than wrecking. He causes the blind to see, the lame to walk, and makes babies hearts beat when before there was none. And He does it through people who are crazy enough to believe He does it. That know that when the last apostle died, the miracles didn't end. That hear His voice and do what He says, even if it sounds crazy.
When Eddie was about nine months old, we moved back to Austin after a six month stay in Dallas. While in Dallas, Eddie's care had been badly handled by one of his primary providers, but when I tried to switch to a different hospital I was told that his liver disease had progressed so far that it would be pointless to change. No specialist wanted to take a patient that only had a few weeks, if that, to live. It was a fair prognosis; Eddie was extremely yellow, his blood had no clotting factors to speak of, his systems were failing. I didn't want to stay where he had been mistreated, however, so I called his original GI in Austin and he took him back. Thanks to generous friend who offered let us stay in their home in Bastrop, we were in Austin a day or two later.
During our hospital stay upon our return, a preacher came to visit us. One of his parishioners had met my husband, heard our story and passed it on to his pastor. With Phillip's permission, Pastor Scott paid us a visit. He laid hands on Eddie and prayed for his healing. What I witnessed was crazy. My sick little baby threw his arms in the air as if he'd been electrified and laughed, obviously feeling a flood of Holy Spirit power course through him. We were discharged a few days later. His numbers were improving.
Not surprisingly we began to attend this church. At first it was so awesome to be around these people who believed in signs and miracles. In radical, crazy healing miracles. I wanted so badly for my baby to be made whole and had already witnessed God's healing power at work in him time and time again. I wanted this to be the place where his healing would be completed. Where he would go from being terminally ill to perfectly well in the blink of an eye. I just knew it was going to happen.
And great, miraculous things did continue to happen. Eddie's numbers had improved so much that even his gastroenterologist was beginning to think differently. Then, suddenly, he was in terrible shape again. The gastroenterologist wanted Eddie have a liver biopsy, the first step toward transplant. After much, much, much prayer, we had decided not to go the transplant route. It would be a terribly painful process for Eddie with very little chance of helping him. His best case scenario was a liver transplant that would allow him to live long enough to have yet another liver transplant and an intestinal transplant. Long shot does not even begin to cover it and his quality of life would suffer greatly. Every time I brought "transplant" to God the answer was "no." (Remember, He talks.) So, I bit the bullet and told his doctor our decision.
It wasn't pretty. Eddie had miraculously recovered on so many occasions that his doctors, who from the beginning had thought his case was completely hopeless, were beginning to think he had a fighting chance. He did not understand why I wouldn't want to try the only medical option that was left. My answer wasn't easy, but I said it. I said, "Because I think it is what God wants and I believe Jesus is the Healer. If he wants to heal Eddie He will and, if not, there is nothing we can do about that." He responded diplomatically but I could see it in his eyes. CRAZY. I called a time out and asked that he schedule us for an appointment in a week's time. During that week, we would pray and be open to God changing our minds about the transplant. He said that a week from now Eddie could be in the ER dying of an esophageal bleed. I said then that would be God's will. CRAZY.
A week later we were back. The doctor had spoken to a transplant specialist and, having gotten a realistic look at Eddie's chances of merely surviving the surgery, had reconsidered his opinion and encouraged us to talk to hospice. The transplant pressure was off, but, better than that, Eddie was better. Lots better. He had gained weight and his liver numbers were the best they had been since we had moved back to Austin. Shocked by the improvement, his doctor asked, "What did you do?" I answered the only way I knew how. "Nothing," I said, "We just prayed." He shook his head but smiled. Crazy.
We did not attend Pastor Scott's church long. We found out that part of their theology was that, if you didn't get a miracle, if someone's cancer didn't disappear for example, it was from a lack of faith. They believed that we have complete control over everything in life -- disease, death, finances, etc -- so if you were poor or sick or if you died, it was because you lacked faith. One pastor actually said in a sermon that the recent death of an elderly member, who had a heart attack while mowing his yard, was because he didn't pray the right prayer when Satan brought that heart attack against him. I could go on for several paragraphs citing scriptural examples of why this is faulty logic, not biblically based, and just overall bad ju-ju, but I'll just say that it's...crazy! Phillip and I actually affectionately refer to that as "The Crazy Church."
I am grateful for The Crazy Church, though. They were bold enough to pray for my baby with a mad, radical kind of faith and God used their hands to restore him, to buy him time. They emboldened me to speak the truth, no matter how crazy it may sound. To speak with boldness that God was going to heal my son and then, when He did, to give credit where credit was due.
When the time came for Eddie to receive the ultimate healing, God didn't blind side me. I knew it was coming. Eddie had been a living testimony of God's grace, love and His crazy, miraculous, healing power, but he wasn't going to have to do it forever. He was going to get to go home and rest as a good and faithful tiny servant of the Lord. God spoke it to my heart a month or two before he died and, while I fought and prayed against that truth, I knew. By the time it came, I was as ready to let him go as any mother can be, I guess.
There were probably people back then who had heard me talk crazy -- heard me cry healing, miracles, hope and restoration -- and felt sorry for me. Thought I probably felt foolish once he died for all that hope that I had carried for so long. But I didn't; I don't. Hope sustained me and, through me, it sustained Eddie. Crazy faith, crazy love, crazy hope carried us through the craziest, most wonderful adventure of our lives. Our journey was lit up by miracles, by signs, by the Holy Presence and Voice of God and I think it was in large part because we hoped.
God is calling my attention to the crazy people again. He is surrounding me with them; He is placing them in my path and in my ear. To the ones who know that the kingdom of heaven is in part a state of mind and we get to live in it and experience its power. That you don't just learn about God, you experience Him. You can encounter Him in miraculous ways while you are just hanging out doing ordinary things. I need that kind of crazy again. I want to be bold in speaking about the power of God. Not just talking about it, but exercising it. Believing, against all odds, full of all hope, unafraid of looking foolish if things don't go the way I thought they would. To pray radical, bold prayers, sometimes even out loud and believe that they will be answered. I want to lose face to gain the kingdom. I want to make a total ass out of myself for God. Crazy.
I used to not care about this at all. In fact, shock-value was something I highly prized. But I no longer like to shock just for the sake of shocking; I don't like to make people uncomfortable if I can avoid it. And to be honest, when you tell the average person something like, "God told me..." or "God said the funniest thing the other day..." you get a reaction that ranges in subtlety from a mere double blink of the eyes to an all out recoiling in horror. I talk to God and, here's the cool part, He talks back to me. All the time. Some times in a still, small voice in my head (see, I said "voice in my head"; the men in white coats are on their way for me as we speak), sometimes in a deep sense of knowing in my gut, sometimes audibly. Yes, audibly. And some people might think that is crazy, but it also happens to be true.
God talked in the Bible all the time. I'm not sure why the feeling in modern day is that He suddenly just shut up and let other people do the talking for Him. He spoke so clearly to Samuel that he got up several times to ask Eli what he wanted from him, only to discover it was God's voice, not Eli's, he was hearing. God talks.
He also does lots of other crazy things. He heals. He raises people from the dead. He casts out demons (I believe in demons; angels too... wow, this is getting fun). He makes cars pass through each other rather than wrecking. He causes the blind to see, the lame to walk, and makes babies hearts beat when before there was none. And He does it through people who are crazy enough to believe He does it. That know that when the last apostle died, the miracles didn't end. That hear His voice and do what He says, even if it sounds crazy.
When Eddie was about nine months old, we moved back to Austin after a six month stay in Dallas. While in Dallas, Eddie's care had been badly handled by one of his primary providers, but when I tried to switch to a different hospital I was told that his liver disease had progressed so far that it would be pointless to change. No specialist wanted to take a patient that only had a few weeks, if that, to live. It was a fair prognosis; Eddie was extremely yellow, his blood had no clotting factors to speak of, his systems were failing. I didn't want to stay where he had been mistreated, however, so I called his original GI in Austin and he took him back. Thanks to generous friend who offered let us stay in their home in Bastrop, we were in Austin a day or two later.
During our hospital stay upon our return, a preacher came to visit us. One of his parishioners had met my husband, heard our story and passed it on to his pastor. With Phillip's permission, Pastor Scott paid us a visit. He laid hands on Eddie and prayed for his healing. What I witnessed was crazy. My sick little baby threw his arms in the air as if he'd been electrified and laughed, obviously feeling a flood of Holy Spirit power course through him. We were discharged a few days later. His numbers were improving.
Not surprisingly we began to attend this church. At first it was so awesome to be around these people who believed in signs and miracles. In radical, crazy healing miracles. I wanted so badly for my baby to be made whole and had already witnessed God's healing power at work in him time and time again. I wanted this to be the place where his healing would be completed. Where he would go from being terminally ill to perfectly well in the blink of an eye. I just knew it was going to happen.
And great, miraculous things did continue to happen. Eddie's numbers had improved so much that even his gastroenterologist was beginning to think differently. Then, suddenly, he was in terrible shape again. The gastroenterologist wanted Eddie have a liver biopsy, the first step toward transplant. After much, much, much prayer, we had decided not to go the transplant route. It would be a terribly painful process for Eddie with very little chance of helping him. His best case scenario was a liver transplant that would allow him to live long enough to have yet another liver transplant and an intestinal transplant. Long shot does not even begin to cover it and his quality of life would suffer greatly. Every time I brought "transplant" to God the answer was "no." (Remember, He talks.) So, I bit the bullet and told his doctor our decision.
It wasn't pretty. Eddie had miraculously recovered on so many occasions that his doctors, who from the beginning had thought his case was completely hopeless, were beginning to think he had a fighting chance. He did not understand why I wouldn't want to try the only medical option that was left. My answer wasn't easy, but I said it. I said, "Because I think it is what God wants and I believe Jesus is the Healer. If he wants to heal Eddie He will and, if not, there is nothing we can do about that." He responded diplomatically but I could see it in his eyes. CRAZY. I called a time out and asked that he schedule us for an appointment in a week's time. During that week, we would pray and be open to God changing our minds about the transplant. He said that a week from now Eddie could be in the ER dying of an esophageal bleed. I said then that would be God's will. CRAZY.
A week later we were back. The doctor had spoken to a transplant specialist and, having gotten a realistic look at Eddie's chances of merely surviving the surgery, had reconsidered his opinion and encouraged us to talk to hospice. The transplant pressure was off, but, better than that, Eddie was better. Lots better. He had gained weight and his liver numbers were the best they had been since we had moved back to Austin. Shocked by the improvement, his doctor asked, "What did you do?" I answered the only way I knew how. "Nothing," I said, "We just prayed." He shook his head but smiled. Crazy.
We did not attend Pastor Scott's church long. We found out that part of their theology was that, if you didn't get a miracle, if someone's cancer didn't disappear for example, it was from a lack of faith. They believed that we have complete control over everything in life -- disease, death, finances, etc -- so if you were poor or sick or if you died, it was because you lacked faith. One pastor actually said in a sermon that the recent death of an elderly member, who had a heart attack while mowing his yard, was because he didn't pray the right prayer when Satan brought that heart attack against him. I could go on for several paragraphs citing scriptural examples of why this is faulty logic, not biblically based, and just overall bad ju-ju, but I'll just say that it's...crazy! Phillip and I actually affectionately refer to that as "The Crazy Church."
I am grateful for The Crazy Church, though. They were bold enough to pray for my baby with a mad, radical kind of faith and God used their hands to restore him, to buy him time. They emboldened me to speak the truth, no matter how crazy it may sound. To speak with boldness that God was going to heal my son and then, when He did, to give credit where credit was due.
When the time came for Eddie to receive the ultimate healing, God didn't blind side me. I knew it was coming. Eddie had been a living testimony of God's grace, love and His crazy, miraculous, healing power, but he wasn't going to have to do it forever. He was going to get to go home and rest as a good and faithful tiny servant of the Lord. God spoke it to my heart a month or two before he died and, while I fought and prayed against that truth, I knew. By the time it came, I was as ready to let him go as any mother can be, I guess.
There were probably people back then who had heard me talk crazy -- heard me cry healing, miracles, hope and restoration -- and felt sorry for me. Thought I probably felt foolish once he died for all that hope that I had carried for so long. But I didn't; I don't. Hope sustained me and, through me, it sustained Eddie. Crazy faith, crazy love, crazy hope carried us through the craziest, most wonderful adventure of our lives. Our journey was lit up by miracles, by signs, by the Holy Presence and Voice of God and I think it was in large part because we hoped.
God is calling my attention to the crazy people again. He is surrounding me with them; He is placing them in my path and in my ear. To the ones who know that the kingdom of heaven is in part a state of mind and we get to live in it and experience its power. That you don't just learn about God, you experience Him. You can encounter Him in miraculous ways while you are just hanging out doing ordinary things. I need that kind of crazy again. I want to be bold in speaking about the power of God. Not just talking about it, but exercising it. Believing, against all odds, full of all hope, unafraid of looking foolish if things don't go the way I thought they would. To pray radical, bold prayers, sometimes even out loud and believe that they will be answered. I want to lose face to gain the kingdom. I want to make a total ass out of myself for God. Crazy.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)