You read it right, I experienced a healing on October 18, 2015. You’re probably as shocked as I am.
Healings are something that happens exclusively in African countries, with special missionaries and back the biblical times, right? Not today, in North America.
That’s what I thought.
For the last two years, I’ve suffered from several injuries that didn’t heal. The first one, being my neck. As I was practicing CPR in an obligatory course, I looked up to the right, and that was the beginning of being bedridden for nearly 6 weeks. Nerve blocks, muscle relaxants, chiropractor and frequent massages never took away the pain completely. Up until 2 weeks ago, I maintained a steady diet of Ibuprofen, muscle relaxants (sometimes something stronger) with semi-frequent massages.
The second injury, only 6 months ago, involved a moment of weakness and distress with Dear God. I can confirm tears, and yelling were part of the internal pain that I expressed outwardly. Although my bedframe doesn’t show the marks, my foot never healed from the frustrated, bare-footed kick. The kick that immediately buckled me forward where my hand came forward and also got injured as I came up swinging. Two broken fingers, and several broken bones in my foot had left me looking as though I was taught a tough lesson by Ronda Rousey. Not a day went by where I was able to drive, the walking cast was on my accelerator foot, the finger casts on my writing hand. Even after the casts came off, getting around was difficult and doubled my dose of Ibuprofen.
One bedridden night, I was flipping through Amazon and watched “The Finger of God” through the encouragement of a friend. I was so touched, I wound up watching all the films by Wunderlust (WP Films). Not all of them were special to me, I could have missed movie number 2 entirely, but they left me so encouraged. By the time I finished the last one, I decided to try out a local church; but not just any church, I would not be swayed back into one of those of my childhood churches with stuffy music and even stuffier people. On that fateful Sunday, October 18, Dear God touched me and I wept.
The music was astounding. The preaching was less than impacting. Dear God was still there, with the less than perfect sermon. Dear God had room for everyone there, me included. At the end, when the pastor prayed and asked for God to touch everyone, to touch the bad backs and sore necks. I felt a warmth, like a hug from a parent before you hit puberty, warmth remembered from youth when the world still seemed perfect. I cried like I haven’t cried. I cried for my broken heart. I cried for my broken body. I cried for the miracles Dear God has done in my life, but I still felt abandoned. I cried for the sake of crying. And when I was done crying, I was able to walk out of church.
Yes, you read that correctly. I walked, without limping, out of church. I walked straight, and looked over my shoulder when I left. Over my shoulder, neck twisting, without a thought, because there was no pain.
Even my foot and hands, that broke with my anger towards Dear God; Dear God had the Grace and capacity to meet me there, at that little church that had no more than 30 people in it, and me – broken me – healing the very wounds I suffered wanting to inflict pain out of frustration on Him.
That’s the first time I’ve ever felt the Spirit move, and I’ve been walking towards it, without pain, since.
Oh, and I had a massage today … part of my former, regularly scheduled pain regimen, and she didn’t find a single knot between my shoulders, had to ease the amount of pressure she used, and she didn’t find a tight trapeze muscle. I wept until I feel asleep, right there on the table today; for the first time in years, I relaxed.