Some people get the idea that once you experience a miracle you live happily ever after. Like some weird Christianese adaptation of a Disney screenplay. As the beneficiary of multiple miracles, I would argue that simply isn’t true.
Every miracle I’ve experienced—from salvation to healing—has been a pruning, and pruning has purpose. While it’s true that Jesus heals because he loves, it’s also true that he heals with specific purposes in mind, whether for confirmation of his Word, a display of power, a revelation of His character, edification of the Church, or for good works.
“We are God’s workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand, so that we should walk in them” (Eph. 2:10 NKJV).
Miracles mean something more like “Get to work!”
The works God prepares for believers “beforehand” are fruit-bearing works. And fruit is heavy. God knew I couldn’t bear the weight of the fruit he wanted me to grow as sick as I was. Healing was necessary. Without it, I had nothing more to give.
A couple of years ago while Brandon and I were going through the foster care certification process—a process we couldn’t have considered without the miracle of healing—I counted the cost. Jesus instructs us to do this in Scripture.
At the time, I was doing pretty well, considering. “Pretty well”, because life was manageable. I was getting 8-9 hours of sleep per night, exercise was a part of my daily routine, and I was following the Whole 30 diet off and on, with no major swings in the other direction. “Considering”, because I was seeing a rheumatologist in Shreveport every six months due to arthritic pain, joint stiffness, and strange vascular nodules in my left thumb that appeared in the fall of 2017.
In foster care, you never know what will be served up case by case, but you know it won’t be easy. Besides, I wasn’t walking into the thing blind. I had seen the hard places the children in care come from. Both Micah and Sara had taken a tremendous toll on my health. It took what only the Holy Spirit can give for me to lay down my health, my sleep, and my time at Jesus’ feet.
The sacrifice wasn’t hypothetical. It took on flesh when a baby was placed in my arms in December 2019. But of course, I could freely give only because I had freely received.
Baby A didn’t sleep much that first year, and she cried A LOT. A lot, a lot. Which isn’t unusual for babies in foster care nor unusual in my parenting experience. Apparently, God thinks what my anxious, high-strung nature needs most is colicky babies. Because that is what he gives me. We are three for three.
Sleeplessness took its toll, and the incessant screaming awakened a case of PTSD I’d only suspected I had. (Sara’s infancy was rough.) Many times in the night, I would wake already on my feet, heart racing. Sometimes the baby was crying. Other times, she was only crying in my dreams.
Last fall, a wave of depression flattened and hollowed me out. Fatigue pulled me down a familiar hole I never cared to visit. One afternoon, I freaked out over finding maggots all over the new house in the strangest places—the kitchen cabinet, the hall, the living room. Like absolutely flipped my lid over it.
Micah, who had observed the episode from start to finish, said, “Mama, you’re scaring me.”
So Mama called the nurse practitioner,
and the nurse practitioner said,
“Sounds like anxiety and depression.
Let’s start you on some meds.”
It took almost a month, but a daily dose of Zoloft restored me.
I was doing so well in December that Brandon and I decided to host an exchange student for the spring semester—another decision you couldn’t pay me to regret.
Thinking the depression was just an extra bad case of my normal SAD routine I do every winter, I tried to wean off the Zoloft in early May. That went…poorly. Mostly, I couldn’t tolerate the fatigue or walking around as an emotionless shell of myself. I had children, a husband. I had a book to publish.
Rather than reducing or eliminating the medication, I had to double my dose. We were dealing with the clinical stuff this go around.
Within a couple of weeks, I felt better, and even my pain was down.
On Monday, I had my six month follow up with my rheumatologist. Dr. Anthony took notes while I rattled off my new symptoms—pain in the joints of both feet, continued stiffness and discomfort in my hands, hips, back, and knees.
“So did you talk to your husband about the Plaquenil?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said, “but Brandon and I don’t feel we should start that unless there’s evidence of joint erosion.” Up to that point, there hadn’t been. All we knew is that I suffered from some unnamed form of autoimmune arthritis. “But when the time comes, I’ll do it.”
I don’t intend to let myself decompose until I’m dead.
Dr. Anthony nodded. “Okay. We’ll just do an ultrasound on your left hand and right wrist today. No blood work this time.”
“Sounds good to me.” I loved the ultrasound techs and always preferred needle-less medical encounters. Needles make me nervous. I word vomit when I’m nervous, and no one ever knows what I’m going to say, including me.
After the ultrasound was completed, I made my next appointment and left.
Yesterday, I received a call with the results. The joints in my left hand have degenerated since October. In short, I start Plaquenil tomorrow and will likely receive a full work up when I return to the rheumatologist in December. I might even get a diagnosis. It won’t contain any words I like.
You’ll have to excuse my janky immune system. It doesn’t know how to act.
But I do. I know this ground, and it’s holy. Because Jesus is always here. With me. Now.
No name scares me anymore because of the Name I fear most. Whatever this is, I’m at peace. Besides, it’s not half as frightening as mast cell madness.
I see what the Enemy is doing. I’m almost ready to release The Road to Jubilee, the true account of my illness and healing, and the devils would like nothing more than for me to decide the miracle was a fraud and not publish the book.
But it wasn’t. I had mast cell activation disease, and now I don’t. Jesus healed me. Period.
And he can do it again. Full stop.
But—and I say this carefully—illness is sometimes part of the assignment. It’s difficult to speak to women who wonder why you received healing and they didn’t. It’s difficult to minister where the need is greatest—clinics and hospitals—if you’re never sick.
And I know my assignment. I’m to bear fruit in all seasons, and my leaves are to bring healing to the nations.
This thing, whatever it is, only positions me to be more effective in the works God prepared for me to do. And as for the cost of motherhood? It’s difficult to look into the faces of my children and not feel embarrassed to talk about cost. They are, each one, royalty worth dying for.
So here’s the plan—
Trust God.
Start the Plaquenil. I’m praying for no side effects, which would be another miracle given my history with medication.
Continue to do what I’m doing—worshiping Jesus, obeying his Word, serving my husband, nurturing my children, managing my home, offering prayer sessions, and working toward the publication of my healing story that is not in any way negated due to the circumstances.
Schedule rest, eat wholesome food, and start to exercise again.
Let Brandon decide when to add children to the mix. Because let’s face it—I’m a bleeding heart, and there’s nothing to do for it.
In essence, I continue to walk in the freedom of Jubilee as I have for the last five and a half years, and trust God with the fruit. I look to Him and rest in His presence. Because He, and not a specific set of circumstances, is my happily ever after.