Healing

Haste

I’ve been overrun lately with tasks and the tyranny of looming month-end. It has left me depressed, distracted and downhearted – and in truth – somewhat resentful. With each fire I put out, another one flares up. I feel that no matter how hard I try, the finishing line just keeps shifting. I have forgotten important details, misplaced important items and struggled desperately to fall asleep at night.

A crash of almighty proportions awaits me if I continue like this. And then… I found these comforting words in a file I was going through today. It’s a paraphrase of Psalm 23, written by a Japanese woman, Toki Miyashina. Here is balm for your soul in a week gone mad with deadlines, overdue projects, conflict, problems and burdens:

23rd Psalm, Japanese Translation

The Lord is my Pace-setter, I shall not rush;
He makes me stop and rest for quiet intervals.
He provides me with images of stillness,
which restore my serenity.

He leads me in ways of efficiency
through calmness of mind,
and His guidance is peace.

Even though I have a great many things
to accomplish each day,
I will not fret, for His presence is here;

His timelessness, His all importance,
will keep me in balance.

He prepares refreshment and renewal
in midst of my activity,

By anointing my mind with His oils of tranquility.
My cup of joyous energy overflows,
surely harmony and effectiveness
shall be the fruits of my hours,
for I shall walk, in the pace of my Lord
and dwell in His house forever.

. . . .

May this peace descend upon you, this oil of tranquility, as you take a moment to step outside your frantic haste and find your joy, wonder and balance again.

Crisis

An early morning Sunday, the air clear but heralding the intention of heat later on. I’m spruced, I’m dressed, I’m breakfasting – signs of my intention to head off to church soon. I throw open my balcony doors to welcome the cool breeze before the day warms, and suddenly I hear desperate birdsong, panicked screeching. I look out and see cats surefootedly stalking a fluttering, vibrant-green parakeet flying from bush to bush. I hurriedly leave my eggs and juice to dash down flights of stairs, church dress flailing about me in my rush to save a little bird.

But all I can do is chase the predators away – I have no rescue plan, here on my own. And the frightened ball of feathers won’t let me near him and flies off to a balcony way beyond my reach. I’m late for church. I shoot off a prayer to the Creator of the bird, who made me too, asking Him to salvage this situation – but then I must rush to be on time for the service.

It’s a lovely time together, we sing a song about trusting Jesus in the valleys and the minister reminds us of belief and faith, to hope for things unseen. I make my way home, my heart fed and full.

As I get closer to my door, I hear it again –this time a stronger chirp from somewhere high above my head. I halt for a while under the tall trees outside my home, trying to find brighter green among a greater sea of swaying leaves. A woman makes her way to me – it’s her bird, and she’s heartbroken over his escape. Two pairs of eyes are now trying to pinpoint the location of the chirping, and we’re talking, talking as two women do in such a situation. I find out she attends church too. We exchange numbers. She invites me for tea sometime. I like her instantly, we laugh like old friends, and collectively cry out with dismay as her beautiful parakeet takes flight to a tree beyond our fences. Gone. I promise to come over in the week for that promised cup of tea, if only to commiserate with her over this loss.

It’s only later in the afternoon, returned from family visits, that the thought starts forming in my mind. We furiously pray against hurdles and adversity in our lives, banishing the negative with positive affirmations, visualising the glorious solution to all our problems – and call it faith. I don’t dispute the place of hope in our darkness, it is indeed what keeps the ship from sinking. But the escape of a bright little parakeet reminded me that there’s often an opportunity concealed in the folds of a hardship or event not to our liking, something that would not have come otherwise. Because today, I made a friend.

The tale has a joyful conclusion. The following day, the bird returned – and of own accord came to sit down on the top of his cage, in search of his mate inside. My new friend was able to quickly throw a towel over him, scoop him up and return him to safety. We rejoiced over our cup of tea that our Creator still cares for his creation!

Touch

From a very young age, I always knew there was a God. Always sensed, somehow, He was there… and that I could talk to Him. Don’t ask me how I was aware of that. But what I was burning to know was, would He ever respond to me? Was He able, in some other-worldly way, to stretch the divide between the supernatural into the natural and make His presence known to my very skin?

So, there I was in church, seated in a pew next to my parents, singing from a hymnal. We weren’t regular churchgoers, so the liturgy was half foreign to me, every movement and motion unexpected. We all bowed our heads for prayer at one point. And there it was! A light brush against my hair at the back of my head. An angel had touched me! I was so excited.

Only to discover, moments later, as the minister intoned his sonorous AHHHMEN, bringing solemn prayer to a close, that it was the habit there for men to stand while praying.  The man behind me had accidentally touched my hair.  Not a celestial being.

Oh, the disappointment. I so much wanted God to reach from his heavenly throne and touch me.

I confess, I still do.

Any cursory search of the internet will tell you how important human touch is. It lessens pain. Makes your lungs work better, brings down your sugar level, improves your immune system. Babies don’t grow and flourish without being held. Touch can do great harm too – abuse in various forms, slaps and punches damage the heart long after the bruises have healed. But touch also conveys healing, it can instruct, direct, comfort, play, love.

My mom teaches English to foreign students and once wanted to affirm a young boy’s correct attempts, so patted him on the head with a ‘well done, well done’. He violently jerked away with a ‘lude, lude!’ (he needed more work on pronouncing r instead of l). Turns out, in his culture a pat on the head equates to the Western equivalent of a slap on the rear.

You have to know how and where to touch!

And if human touch can achieve so much, how much more did the touch of Jesus accomplish as he walked in human flesh on this earth?

Our Saviour washed feet. Dirty, smelly, mud-encrusted, likely dung-covered, feet.

He welcomed children brought to him, to have his heavenly hand placed on their little heads for blessing.

But it is in healing that the touch of Christ has such unbridled effect.

The healed leper of Mark 1:40-42 couldn’t keep his mouth shut about Jesus’ touch, despite being told to hold his tongue on the matter. There are four accounts of blind people receiving their sight back in various unique ways involving Christ’s touch – at Bethsaida (Mark 8:22-26), near Jericho (Mark 10:46-52), in Galilee (Matthew 9:27-31) and the man blind from birth (John 9:1-12). Then, too, Peter’s mother-in-law, bedridden with fever, healed by a hand placed on her ailing frame (Matthew 8:14-15).  And a young girl presumed dead, raised to vibrant health as Jesus reached out and restored her (Matthew 9:18). These are the ones that stand out for me – but there are more.

His touch must have been like a lightning bolt, electrifying their bodies back to vitality.

Something I missed in all these accounts of hands-on healing, however, was a startling and very obvious fact I discovered in a Bible dictionary on my shelf. Something I was vaguely aware of, but hadn’t really connected to the healing ministry of Jesus until now.

The Old Testament clearly forbade touching the sick or the sinful.

Jesus did what was forbidden so that people could be restored, saved, healed, delivered, set free, made new. He didn’t squirm, he didn’t send someone else, he didn’t put on gloves, he didn’t keep his distance. He rolled up his sleeves and made blind eyes see, deaf ears hear, diseased bodies rise up and walk…. and his touch had far more than just physical results. Outcasts were restored to their communities and families, livelihoods were changed (you can hardly carry on begging if you’re no longer blind?).

Once he touched you, your life was never the same again, not in any way, shape or form.

What will it take for you to hug someone today? Put your arm around a suffering shoulder? Hold them as you pray for them? Who around you, near you, needs an affirming hand? A pat on the arm? A welcoming handshake? Or are the sick and sinful ‘forbidden’ territory to you too? Leave your made-up rules behind and set aside your qualms and reservations. Do what it takes to see that someone is healed today because you followed the Healer’s example… and touched them.

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Daughter

For the longest time I have been in the darkest despair.  When my dad passed away early last year, I found myself ill-equipped to grieve graciously.  I was already struggling, emotionally asphyxiating.  Countless inner wounds had kept me tethered to periods of frustration, seasons of sadness, dark swirls of depression.  I had plodded on – that’s what a good soldier does.  I had learnt coping skills.  I had kept my chin up.  But losing my father sent me crashing into a wall of personal disorientation, my overwhelmed and crushed spirit unable to absorb the blow of death and loss.

I tried desperately to hang on to fraying threads of hope, but anguish pushed forward as a relentless surge, obliterating even the joyful landmarks of my inner landscape.  Lifejoy died that day on the study floor as I knelt beside my father’s still frame where he had collapsed from a heart attack – my words to my aunt, when she arrived, ‘He has fallen down and he will not get up again,’ were meant for my heart too.  Nothing would ever be the same again.

misrepresentThey say there are two kinds of people in the world – those who are wounded, and those who are liars.  Twenty years in the church had taught me that even those who profess to love Christ would rather shout ‘hallelujah’, wear a plastic smile on the outside, yet miserably stuff their sin, shame and pain into the dark attic of their barely-alive hearts.  When we misrepresent ourselves like this, we have no fear of God in us and we cause others to stumble in their faith and the world to call us hypocrites.  I didn’t want this for myself.  If Jesus came to set captives free, well then, I wanted my freedom!

I sought out some help and got down into the trenches of memory and pain, sorting through disappointment and doubt, grief and fear.  It turned out to be the hardest thing I’ve had to do.  Facing up to myself and the darkness that had hounded me for years took far more courage than I had.  I hung on to verses like ‘Never will I leave you, never will I forsake you,’ (Hebrews 13:5) and ‘As for you, I’ll come with healing, curing the incurable, because they all gave up on you and dismissed you as hopeless – that good-for-nothing Zion,’ (Jeremiah 30:17).  Yet, my terrors remained – looming large, springing traps on me.  Sleep became a problem.  I felt besieged, the enormity of my turmoil weighing me down.heb13v5

As the weeks slipped into months, my self-frustration grew at my lack of progress and shame started building as I then blamed myself for not healing sooner.

But I kept on digging.

Sick, exhausted and heartbroken, I wrote in my journal: ‘Do my remaining years here on this planet hold any good?  I DON’T WANT TO FIGHT FOR EVERYTHING MY WHOLE LIFE.’  And later: ‘The oppressive heaviness won’t lift.  It just stares at me all day and I stare backdreamsgone2, and so we sit, inert and lifeless, too worn down and weary to lift a finger.’  I recalled a line from a poem I had written many years ago at another low point in my life: ‘My dreams are gone, my hope is crushed / My aspirations turned to dust’.

I have a small book by Dutch Sheets called Hope Resurrected.  I’ve read it several times.  It is dog-eared, tear-stained, underlined.  He writes that the giants we face today will always be the biggest we’ve faced – and nowhere in God’s Word could I see evidence in support of running away from my enemies (only running to God).  So, I turned, planted my feet and let the fear and shame and pain and loss come at me.  And come at me they did.

For some freakish reason, they had grown in size, they were worse.  They were huge.  My desperation and depression seemed out of control.  I felt I had waded into hell.

I was encouraged to look up and see a world waiting for me, that I had something to offer – but I couldn’t lift my head, I just couldn’t.  My eyes were glued to the horrifying sight of the ground giving way under my feet.

I read in my book: ‘You don’t have to be well to hope, but you do have to hope to be well.’  As terrified and crushed and depressed as I felt, I simply could not allow myself to give up.  The stakes were too high.

hope wellThen one day, a very small and mundane thing happened.  Crying in my kitchen, soapy water and tears rinsing my dishes, I came to understand the verse from Hebrews, that God is always with me, even in this deluge of misery.  Holding my hand.  Not letting go.  And that others too had faced the losses I had experienced, and had somehow got through it.  So would I.

I spilled my worst shame and pain to someone who would listen and came home later that evening to a dark and cold flat, still filled with so much hurt.  The dam wall broke with such intensity then, collapsing on me, its waters drenching my cheeks, my clothes, my pillow.  I sobbed and wailed into the small hours of the night, and much of the next day too.  I couldn’t make it stop.  Pain welled up from deep inside and I cried like I cried on the day we stood at my dad’s coffin and said goodbye.  I thought the pain was going to kill me.  This time round, though, I was crying over the grave of a lost childhood, wishes and aspirations, longings and hopes – all burnt to the ground.  Curled up in a ball, I cried that no-one had listened to my dreams… but wait.  That wasn’t true!  It suddenly occurred to me that in going to Italy (a dream since age four), a loving God had heard a little girl’s sighs and made it happen for her.

It dawned on me.

I am his DAUGHTER.

He sits and watches me all the time.  He dotes on me.  He sings me songs.  He teaches me things. I BELONG.  I am HIS.  My joys and my sorrows are all his.  I have a place at the family table.  I’m part of the party, no longer hanging around at the edges in shameful shadows.  I have an EQUAL inheritance with my brothers and sisters in Christ.  I don’t need to stand back for anyone or anything.  I have his undivided attention when I speak to him.  He spends time with me.  He has not only saved me from my sin, but he has also saved me from my pain.  Saviour.

Now my immense pain has a day and a date that I laid it to rest.  I still cry, but the intensity is less, and I am assured that, in time, it will fade – eventually taking its proper perspective in the grand scheme that is my life.  I am not swinging from celestial chandeliers just yet.

But I am walking towards the light.

Arise [from the depression and prostration in which circumstances have kept you—rise to a new life]!  Shine (be radiant with the glory of the Lord), for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord has risen upon you (Isaiah 60:1 AMP).

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