Earlier this week I was in the bathroom when my three year old daughter ran in urgently. I had kept the door open because it’s not a place I am allowed privacy anyway. She ran up and began quickly explaining herself to me.
“I got a boo-boo Momma!” She exclaimed.
I didn’t see blood pouring from any visible surfaces of her body so I continued to brush my teeth and asked after I spit out my toothpaste, “What happened?”
She began to explain very plainly how she had been jumping on my bed and fell off the side, scraping her shin on the bed frame. “See Momma!” She pointed out a barely visible red area the size of a pencil eraser. I showed much concern, as this was her requirement, and offered to kiss it. The whole scenario was commonplace and didn’t surprise me a bit. But what she said next did. It caught me off guard.
“I asked God to heal me Momma, but He didn’t. It still hurts! Why didn’t He heal me Momma?”
As only a mother can do, despite my initial surprise, I quickly took the punt and ran it in. I explained to her that “God doesn’t always answer our prayers right when we ask because sometimes He has a better idea of what we need. Maybe God let you keep hurting so you’d remember that jumping on the bed is dangerous. Maybe this small boo-boo will help you remember to be careful so you don’t get hurt real bad.”
And she seemed to understand that. I watched her contemplative expression, and as she nodded and answered, “yeah, that makes sense
Mom,” I knew she believed me. And heck, I believed me too. It sounded plausible. I’m of this mindset when my kids get colds in the winter. I pray for them to not get sick, but when they do, I’m quick in my nurse mind to understand that they must build their own share of immunity to prevent worse illnesses from occurring. It works for me, and I just pray for a quick recovery.
But what about when it doesn’t come that easy? I thought today of the incident. What if it had been a worse kind of accident than a simple tumble off the bed? What if it had been a worse outcome than a tiny red bump? Would I understand if God didn’t heal her right when I asked, as I held her crumpled, bleeding body in my hands?
I remember being diagnosed with Epilepsy at the age of eight years old. I experienced a Grand Mal seizure during the week of Christmas and spent my holiday in the hospital. It was frightening for me, but I can’t imagine, now that I understand motherhood, how my mom must have felt. So helpless. She was a nurse too, but unable to fix her baby.
The next few years with that diagnosis were horrible. I experienced crushing migraines that reduced me to tears. I dealt with frightening auras that were a prelude to my seizures. These occurrences were surreal as they caused me to hear voices, voices that spoke loudly and far too fast to understand what they were saying. The thought of it frightens me at 36. I don’t know how I didn’t lose my mind at eight. It took a long time to regulate my medications. I was being seen by an adult neurologist and the doses they were treating me with were better suited for a woman, not a 40 pound girl. I therefore dealt with the side effects of overdose, to include hallucinations and projectile vomiting. While at school.
Why didn’t God heal me? I can look on it now and see where He might have had a better plan. The diagnosis caused my biological father to give up his parental rights. This led to my blessed adoption. I experienced ultimate healing at the age of 21 in miraculous circumstances, ones that I could understand and rejoice over, ones where I was able to witness the power of prayer and the power of God. The mercy of God. Would my life be the same if it had not occurred this way? Probably not.
But why? Why must it happen to begin with? Why can’t God just take it away? Is He really trying to teach us something every time? Does He really always have a plan?
I see so much hurt, so much pain around me. I see women who need healing from sexual abuse. I see men who need healing from drug addiction. I see Cancer, chronic illnesses of all kinds. It’s enough to weaken a saint’s faith.
But then I see so much good around me. I see women healed of the emotional pain and struggle due to abuse. I see men’s addictions removed completely. I see healing, miraculous healing. I hear words like, “unexplainable” or “no medical explanation.”
But then I see loss. Then I see death. Then I see a mother’s tears when her child isn’t looking. I see the vacant eyes of a spouse struggling at the end, the end of the journey of marriage they thought would last forever. I see depression as it grips, it’s claws taking every ounce of joy it can get hold of.
I see all this and I want to give up hope for that moment. For that tearful moment in time, that agonizing moment, I almost give up the hope for healing.
But then I think of Him. I think of His character. I dwell on His goodness. He is always good. Even when things are bad, He is good. His love endures forever. When I remember His character, what He is, who He is, there is only room for hope.
It might not turn out like I think. The healing might not come when I think it should. But He is good. And He desires good for me, and mine.
I think of my mother. She was never healed. She left this world with a broken body, wounded brain, and tattered heart. She had so much pain. But she has it no more. I try to remember the short span of time this earthly life offers. Now she is healed.
When it gets too much, the loss, the pain, the sadness, the threat of hopelessness, I take my focus off of those things. I take my mind off of the desire for quick gratification or healing on my time clock. I turn from those things and I refocus on Jesus. Some things are too hard to understand, too difficult to keep my eyes on them. So I look instead at my Savior, my redeemer, the lifter of my head. The ultimate healer. He is good, and that is good with me. All is well with my soul when I see His face.