Wednesday, 01 February 2012
By Amy at Make Me a Mary
I sit here listening to my youngest playing “There’s a Place in France Where the Naked Ladies Dance” on his trombone as he forces himself to play with his paralyzed little right hand.
I watch him with amazement, a broken vessel in the world’s eyes, just limping along and living life like he’s just the same as everyone else.
I pray for his healing all the time, and still it doesn’t come—and so I ponder the fact that what I’m praying for might not be part of God’s perfect plan for him.
It’s a mystery to me, why God heals some but allows others to suffer. My pastor pointed out Sunday that there are people who believe the Lord doesn’t heal anymore. They believe that healing has passed away.
I say that if someone thinks this is true, then either
1) they’ve never seen someone healed, or
2) they’ve never been healed themselves.
Never mind that the slow, spontaneous healing of a broken bone is a miracle in itself. Or that a spirit released from a body wracked with illness might just be the most miraculous healing of all.
But what about the quick, supernatural kind of healing? Like with Lazarus. Or the woman with the issue of blood. Or Mary Magdalene, and her seven demons cast out.
I believe God still heals, and I can give examples.
Like the time my younger daughter was coughing and sick with a fever for over three weeks. Antibiotics didn’t help, so a bunch of my church friends gathered her up to lay hands on her and pray. As we prayed she began to sweat. She said she felt “chills” while in our midst, and her fever broke immediately. She was sick when we got there and well when we left.
Then there was a period of time when I suffered excruciating pain as I recovered from a spinal fusion. In the midst of it all, my husband died suddenly—and just as suddenly the Lord took my back pain away—and my migraines. The headaches returned after a few months, but the back pain never did.
There was another time in the prayer room of a little country church last summer. I entered the room an oppressed and broken soul, tormented regularly by traumatic memories. But the Lord touched me in that place, and I walked out knowing I’d been set free. I’ve never had another flashback, and police cars and ambulance sirens no longer cause my heart to race with panic.
So I’ve seen God’s healing hand at work—at times moving quickly, at other times slow as Christmas, and sometimes not at all.
But it’s all okay. I’ll just keep on listening to the “Naked Ladies Dance” song and count my blessings. I know He cares about even the least little fallen sparrow, so how much more does He care for my baby—and for me?
I don’t know how God heals. I don’t know why or why not. All I know is, He just can.