I’m Coming Out…

My new friends and neighbours still don’t know what I do and I am looking for a way to tell them.

The answer comes in the form of a newsletter my son brings home from school. There’s a little girl just six (we’ll call her Lily), one of twins, who has a form of cerebral palsy which means she has difficulty standing and walking unaided, and often suffers with pain in her limbs.   The family are fundraising to finance an operation that is only done in the US, and they are gaining a lot of support, but there’s still a long way to go.  The newsletter puts out an appeal to everyone to do what they can to help with the fundraising effort.

What can I do?

Reconnective Healing.

I play with the idea. How could it work?

I could hire a room at the Community Centre for a Saturday morning to coincide with the Craft Fair, offer short sample sessions for £15 (a huge reduction on the recommended fees)  and donate the proceeds to Lily’s fund.

This would be a good way to let people in my small town know that this is what I do.

A bit like coming out.

 

Feeling the fear but doing it anyway, I print off some posters for local shops to display in their windows. I make an ad, using an online app.  Then I tweet and share and tweet and share some more.

I even get a sign for the door printed by Vistaprint.

Attachment 1

The date approaches.

Despite my manic attempts at social marketing, frequent harassment  of my Facebook friends,  insistence that people don’t even have to turn up because distance healing works just as well, my phone remains pretty quiet.

Silent in fact.

All along I have shared my fears with the Universe in our quieter moments together.  What if no-one comes? What if I look stupid (ha – get used to that).  And the more pertinent question, what if it doesn’t work?  Yes, that devil on my shoulder is always there whispering doubt…

I’ll turn up if you do.

The nerves in my tummy are still there, but we have a deal. And somehow, deep down, I know the Universe won’t let me down.  I’ve done all I can now, I say.  It’s out of my hands.  Just send the people who need the healing.

The event is scheduled for Saturday.

Come Friday I only have two pre-bookings. One is from Nick the ‘egg man’ who generously gives me £20 up front for Lily but says he doesn’t want a session.  Another is from a friend with an art stall who I suspect just feels sorry for me.   That makes £35 – better than nothing.  But I’m worried I’ll be sat twiddling my thumbs on my newly acquired treatment couch while people amble past and head for the lemon curd, Nick’s eggs and various knitted creatures in pastel shades with button eyes mocking me pitifully.

 

It’s now 4 O’ clock, Friday afternoon. I call in at Jenny’s Flower Shop.   We’d had a conversation a couple of weeks earlier and  I remind her its tomorrow I’m doing my fundraiser.  Yes, she wants to book.   She’ll stick a note on her door ‘ back in half an hour’  before she opens the shop.   I have my third client.

Later, at 10pm I get a text. ‘Is it too late to book?’  And a fourth.

 

A calm smile begins to spread across my tummy.  I sleep soundly, trusting for the morning.

After my first session with Jenny, my artist friend takes her turn earlier than scheduled. We agreed a sign, husband and I, that he would hold a yellow card against the frosted window if another client is waiting.

And there it is, the yellow card!

One after another, they come…

And what happens in that room is amazing. Some people are very still but describe vivid internal experiences evoking an emotional response, others display stronger responses – twitching arms and legs,  shaking bodies, laughter.  Almost everyone looked somewhat incredulous afterwards.  Often finding it hard to comprehend; leaving the room talking about it in amazement… and others who overhear want a go.

 

And they’re not necessarily people I would expect; business managers,  a Town Councillor, a published illustrator, teaching assistant.  Professionals who are rational thinking, but curious enough to try something new and find out for themselves…

By twelve noon, seven people have come for Reconnective Healing, and some give more than the suggested donation so that the the total raised is an impressive £160.

Thank you Universe.

Funny how, when put to the test, faith always delivers.

I return home feeling elated and mildly dazed. Elated because once again I have confirmation that That Which Is, Holy Spirit, Love is guiding my steps and this whole new project .  Just a little reminder in case my ego steps in and whispers ‘well done’.  And dazed because having bathed in the Reconnective Healing frequencies for three hours I feel slightly disorientated and think I am beginning to experience an altered state of consciousness by inter-dimensional osmosis.

Then my eight year old son  spills ketchup on the new carpet and steps in it.

Hello again Earth.

A tiny stitch

London is behind me. I am back to my small (adopted) home town in North Cornwall.  It is a happy little community that is a mix of indigenous locals and immigrants like us who recognise its innate charm and under-rated profile.  It is not tourist territory.  Nor is it industrial.  This is exactly why we chose it.

 

We are a five minute drive from the sea. When I walk my son to school each morning (no traffic to contend with or parking space to find) we hear dove-call as we amble along the pebble-path along alleyways to the high street. The slower pace of life is what appealed to us.  But how easy will it be to set up a business as a Reconnective Healing Practitioner here?  What will the townsfolk make of me?

 

The final day of our training seminar was devoted to setting up your own practise. I need a clean, warm room to work from, and a treatment table.   I need public liability insurance, to register for tax and some form of effective advertising.  This is all new to me.   As a teacher I just turned up.  Well not exactly, but I wasn’t involved with the business side of things; tax and National Insurance being automatically deducted at source by my LEA.  I never had to think about it.

 

Now I will have to learn.

 

I make a start by building a website.  I like the creativity of choosing a template and playing around with different images and fonts to get the right format and style.  I go for a clean and professional look, but with warmth and personality in the content style.  Tomorrow I have a hair salon appointment.  I’ll ask husband to take some photos when I get back and choose the best to upload.   I’m quite enjoying myself.  Before I know it it’s time to stop for the school run.  I’m fairly pleased with how it’s looking so far.  But I know there’s more to being successful than having a fancy website.

 

I need a mission statement.

 

Something that will remind me of my purpose on days when it all seems a bit slow, like nothing’s happening , that I mustn’t become disheartened but must press on when I come up against obstacles  or have no clients.

 

Gosh this sounds so negative. But I’ve been reading up about self-promotion, social media and how to build your list and  all the platforms I need to be on and in truth I am feeling a bit daunted by it all.

 

Then I remember what Eric said: ‘some of you are finding your mission’.    That’s when the light went on.  Something inside said ‘YES’.  There was an emotional response.

 

I pick up my Bible. (OK I didn’t pick it up.  It wasn’t just there.  I had to fish it out from the bottom of a pile of boxes still in storage.)  But when I find and open it up my eyes fall upon some familiar words:

 

“Being confident of this very thing, that He who has begun a good work in you will complete it until the day of Jesus Christ.”

Philippians 1:6

 

I like the word ‘confident’. I am perfectly happy to take instruction to feel confident.  I am also aware that I’ve been brought to this place for a reason, and what’s more it’s not all about me.

 

It really isn’t just about providing me with a happy and fulfilling life; this may (and will) happen as a side-effect, but in truth I am but a tiny stitch in a vast tapestry. The real purpose expands far beyond me and is part of a grander, richer design.

 

This makes me feel better. It means I’m not in this alone.

We’re all in it together.

 

And this changes my perspective.

The pressure’s off.

 

I am not the Weaver.

I just play my part.

Bit by bit, little by little.

 

I can do this.

I can be one little stitch within the context of a weave where I am supported by the framework of the loom and all the other little stitches surrounding me.

 

I smile, log into Vistaprint and order some business cards.

‘Real heat – soothing heat’

I can’t wait to test it out – these new healing powers that seem to have shown up in my front room through the crumby-edged screen of my Kindle.

But it’s not the sort of thing you can just bring into conversation easily. “Can I practise some healing on you?”

At work, in the staff room, I stick to the safe usual banter and in-house talk that punctuates our gobbled sandwich-eating between marking books and a quick glance over the afternoon’s planning.  But I do confide in a colleague whom I know well enough to trust with a confidence.  Emma is interested and curious, mentioning her own lower back problem.  “Maybe it could help me,” she says lightly. Before we know it we’re arranging a trial distance healing session for the same evening.

Back at home, after delegating the washing up to teenage daughter (now that’s going to happen) I head up to the room we use as a kind of office (meaning it has a desk and printer in one corner, and some built in storage, but other than that is quite a nice-sized empty space). Shutting the door behind me I stand in the middle of the room.  I recall what the practitioner had told me when I’d asked about distance healing.  How he said he would go into the treatment room and work around the table as though the client was there.

WHAT?

I found this intriguing. And did it work?  I’d asked.  Did the person feel the same sensations they would feel if they were present in person?  Surely not!

‘Oh yes,’ he’d said.

“And did people experience healings?”

“Yes.”

UNBELIEVABLE.

Yet I so want it to be true.

 

Looking at my phone I see that the time shows 6.30pm. Emma will be lying down in a quiet place as arranged,  waiting.  I will send healing for 20 minutes.  She will then text afterwards to report back.  This is what we have agreed.

I take a few deep breaths. I’m feeling nervous.  I’m also feeling a bit self-conscious.  What would people think if they could see me now – standing in an empty space, raising my hands, floating them around, over and above  … nothing.  No treatment couch, no client.

They’d think I was a total nutter.

I probably am.

But then, within moments the familiar prickling sensation begins.  Tiny electrical currents dancing across the surface of my palms.  I move my hand in a circular motion, pulling and stretching the ‘energy’ to see how the sensations change.

I feel like a child playing. I’m totally focused in the moment, thinking of Emma but noticing subtle nuances at the same time.  What will happen if I reach up here?  How about circling my fingers like this…. Or what if I dart them like ray-guns?

I notice a tingling along my left calf… then the back of my hand is alive, pricking like a pincushion.

 

I’m surprised to see that 20 minutes have passed and it’s time to stop. I leave it a few moments then I pick up my phone and start texting

‘did you feel anything?’

Then delete. It makes me too vulnerable.  How would I take it if she said no?  I re-phrase – making it more playful, less important:

“Haha – hope that was as good 4 u as it was 4 me.”

It’s still a risk I know.

My heart is pounding. I feel strangely excited.

Am I seriously expecting her to have experienced anything out of the ordinary?

My phone beeps.

I read the screen…

Lol! First I got tingling in my feet then warmth spreading up through my spine into my neck and the back of my head. Real heat, soothing heat!

I can’t believe my eyes. She really felt something?

How did THAT happen?

She lives twenty miles away for goodness sake.

I feel exhilarated, confused, excited, and maybe a little bit scared.

This is something else. This changes everything.  You can’t just walk away from something like this.

 

“How’s your back?” I ask Emma on Monday when we’re back at work. She tells me that on Friday, after the session she felt a lot more comfortable and  the warm feeling stayed with her all  evening.  Not only that, the pain didn’t return at all over the weekend.

 

Sometimes what you hope for just happens.

Sometimes The Universe just gives you a great big YES.

My Holy Grail

They say that just holding it in your hands is sometimes all it takes to be affected by the energy – to begin to feel the frequencies.

The book. I’m talking about the book.  Not THE BOOK –which granted has already changed my life, or shaped it to this point, but a more humble paperback which was to influence where I went from here – the next stage of the journey.

 

I didn’t actually have a physical copy of the book to hold in my hand. I had downloaded it from Kindle, remember, with an impulsive flick of my finger on the one-click setting.  But that didn’t seem to matter.  I COULD feel it.  A slight, warm tingling at first that intensified to pin-pricks that indicated undeniably something akin to an electrical current was flowing in and through my body.

 

The Reconnection: Heal Others, Heal Yourself tells the story of how Eric Pearl, a chiropractor in LA, began to feel similar sensations after receiving some form of quantum re-calibration from a gypsy woman he met on a beach. I’m not selling it very well, I know. You’re thinking it’s all a bit whacky-do.  The point is, his patients began to experience cures.  Incredible, miraculous cures.  And rather than enhance his professional success, he began to lose clients.  It all became a bit too strange.  Indeed he knew himself he was dealing with something ‘off the scale’ which would take some re-adjustment on his part, and on the future direction his life would take.

 

I won’t go into more detail. You can read the book for yourself should you have a mind to.  Suffice to say, that what he came to name “Reconnective Healing” is indeed a form of healing that appears to be newly accessible to us, and that anyone can learn.

Eric Pearl now dedicates his time to travelling the world, teaching others how to access these frequencies to facilitate healings.

 

What is most surprising to me is the ease with which I picked up these sensations just from reading the book. There is a section that instructs you on how to try it out at home on friends or family members.

Once again husband became guinea pig. As I let the palm of my hand float about four inches in front of his open palm I began to feel sharp pin-pricks randomly at different points on the surface area of my skin.

As I ‘hit on’ a sensation I stayed with it, refining and stretching, as I had read about and seen Eric demonstrate on the You Tube videos I had watched.

‘What do you feel?’ I ask.

‘A sort of breeze on the back of my hand,’ he replies. ‘And it feels as though it’s being pulled, like a magnet. It’s weird.’

 

Yes, it is weird. But very exciting.

 

A few days later our eight-year old son returned from school with a slight limp. He says he hurt his knee when he fell playing football.  When he was still limping a day later I asked if I could try to heal him.

 

It was then I had the idea to test out one method of healing against the other.

 

First I ask him to sit on a stool (a white stool, it must be white).   I go through the procedure of the King Technique.  Now the full thing takes  about thirty minutes, if you do it correctly, and I didn’t want to leave any bits out in case it wouldn’t work.  (Even as I write this I realise how wrong it all sounds).    Whereas some people might enjoy the hands-on focussed attention for a full half-hour, and regard it as quality time, eight-year old boys have a tendency to get restless and wriggle about.

 

He tells me he felt some heat from my hands, but his knee still hurts. I leave it a couple of hours before a second attempt using the hands-off Reconnective Healing approach.

 

This time it doesn’t matter where he sits, or what colour the chair is. In fact I ask him to lie down on the sofa, which he is quite happy to do.

 

There is no beginning ritual. No counting the number of sweeps in a certain direction.  No visualising white light.  So I can relax a bit.  I have freedom to begin how I choose.  Instinctively I raise my arms above his head, slightly to the side and kind of swoop into his field, a bit like a gentle big dipper motion.  And there it is, the first ‘indicator’ – a little nip in my palm.  I pause, stay with the sensation, circling it, pulling it higher.  My son begins to respond.  I notice his closed eyelids flicker slightly.  Then I move slowly across his face.  At his right shoulder I sense another ‘prick’, in the tip of my index finger this time.  I move my hand so the sensation is localised in the centre of my palm.  Then I rotate, stretch, ‘playing with it’ as Eric likes to say.

At this point my son gasps, and reaches down to touch his knee.

“Ooh… I felt something in my knee,” he says.  “Like a little tickle.”

Really?

I wasn’t anywhere near his knee. And I was working on the left side of his body (at the other end) not the right.

Curiouser and curiouser.

Immediately I want to test it out. The book tells me a healing can be instantaneous – there doesn’t need to be a set length of time for sessions in order for a healing to ‘work’.   So I ask him to get up and put some weight on it.

He does, and he can’t feel any pain.

He starts running around the room. Then he is out of the door and I don’t see him again until tea time.  But there is no limp this time.

 

I feel uplifted and inspired.

This is more like it. This is natural, intuitive and I don’t feel compromised in any way by taking on new rituals or belief patterns.

I think this is it. This really is it.

I’ve found my Holy Grail.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

‘In the name of JEEEESUS!’

So I resist the obvious Reiki route and decide that since I am a Christian I really should stick with the Christians and join in with their healing thing.   The only problem being, in your ‘bog-standard’ (is that irreverent?) church you don’t see much healing going on.  You have to go to one of these MEGA-churches like you see on the tele (or You Tube).

 

Now it just so happened that we lived within walking distance of one of these free independent churches that was well-attended and ‘alive’.  I also found out that this church had followed the US model of having associated Healing Rooms that people could attend mid-week.  So clearly this church prioritised healing as a central part of its ministry.

Excellent.

I went along to Sunday worship.  I rather liked the band – the electric guitars and drums, played by very talented musicians skilled at enhancing the mood; rousing and euphoric one minute and with a soothing and gentle sensitivity the next.  I seem to remember being rather mesmerised by the bass player who must have only been about 15.  These guys are clearly dedicated and put the hours of practise in.

The people were very loving, very joyful, glowing in fact.  Their love of God, their sincere worship created a sacred space. Tangibly so. The air became thick with the presence of the Holy Spirit, the Shekinah.  I recognised it.  Years earlier I had followed a calling into the ministry.  I was familiar with the Holy Spirit, and the intensity of experience that could be witnessed at such collective gatherings.

We sang.  And sang. And sang some more.

People were standing, arms in the air, eyes closed, swaying gently, and their was a sense of collective hypnosis that seemed to take effect and swell in magnitude.  Only I was on the outside.  I didn’t feel comfortable putting my hands up in the air.  Bit self-conscious maybe, but that’s just me.  So after the sixteenth repeat of “I will sing of your love forever,” (not being facetious btw – the chorus is that same line four times,  so after four repeats of the chorus it adds up),  I sat down and just bathed in the presence.  By now I was starting to get hungry.  I know it’s wrong, but I’m not used to these two hour services. I glance at the lady across the aisle who’s gone a bit When Harry Met Sally – her face is creased up, I think in ecstasy rather than agony, but it could be either.  Yet I’m not feeling it. My stomach’s rumbling and I can’t help thinking about roast potatoes and gravy…

I slip out before the end because it’s OK to move about here – all very relaxed and informal.  As I walk home I feel different.  I can tell my consciousness has been altered.  It’s how I imagine being on drugs to be like. A gentle sedation that softens everything along with a wonderful feeling of pleasure and deep peace. This altered state temporarily cushions me from the harsh reality of living in the world, this town that could be grubby and hostile.  The pavement seems more vivid, I notice.  And the litter….  And the blaring sirens of a police car racing past…  I don’t want my bubble to burst.  I’m enjoying this cocoon.  The contrast is striking and the wonderful inner feeling stays with me all day.

I decide to visit the Healing Rooms the following Wednesday.  Having had corneal surgery on both eyes, I am left with compromised visual acuity.  I give some details, fill out a form and three volunteers are assigned to me.  We go into a quiet back room.  I sit on a chair and after listening to me,  the three of them surround the chair, placing a hand on my shoulder, arm, back.  They are so gentle, warm, loving.  I feel the air in the room thicken with grace one again.  As they lay hands on me and take turns to pray I feel deeply blessed.  Beryl tells me she feels my healing will be gradual and I must just trust and know it will happen.

I make a return visit a few weeks later.  This time a different lady leads.  Before we go into the room she tells me she had a ‘word’ about eyes this morning, and that she feels sure a miracle is going to happen.  Irene (not her real name)  asks me to stand.  She places her hands over my eyes, but that doesn’t seem to be enough.  She places her index and middle finger together and presses them against my eyelids while she’talks’ to the cornea, commanding it in the name of Jesus.  I am then asked to sit down.  She begins questioning me about my past, my relationship with my first husband.  I answer truthfully, but am beginning to find it all a bit personal and, well invasive to be honest. My husband didn’t treat me right.  Did I ever wish he was dead?  I am astonished.  The others seem a bit awkward too.  It’s important, she tells me.  I need to repent of sin that may be blocking and preventing a healing.  I am asked to repeat certain phrases after her.  Not in my head, out loud.  It has to be out loud, witnessed by others.  I do as I’m told, but inside I’m squirming.  It’s embarrassing as much as anything.  I know all about using spiritual authority, but this is a type of aggression.  “I cast out this spirit of infirmity and disease in the name  of JEEEESUS!” she almost shouts,  pushing back my forehead.  I think this lady has been watching too many You Tube videos.  She is styling herself on the evangelical celebrity pastors with their theatrical stage tactics that I find such uncomfortable viewing.   The others are muttering “Thank you, Jesus” and “Yes, Lord” while she’s doing this, but all I can think is let me out of here, and I know I won’t be coming back for more of this – there won’t be a next time.  I found the experience unpleasant and humiliating.  It was so very different from my first visit to the Healing Rooms.

 

So what do I learn from this?   That Christian healing doesn’t work?  That it’s all hype and hot air?  No.  I believe that Jesus can and does heal through this followers today.  But more significantly I learn that there is a lot about the style, presentation and delivery of healing within the evangelical church that I do not feel comfortable with.  The emphasis on proclamations and declarations I believe to be unnecessary and fear-based, reducing a living faith to ritualistic superstition.  Why was it so important I had to say certain words out loud?  Who makes these rules?

I also know I cannot be certain what kind of experience I’m going to have when I ask for Christian healing.  Some will say, that’s because the Holy Spirit will do what he will, and we can’t predict or control what that will look like.  But I’m not talking about this.  I’m talking about the things we can control.  Making sure the encounter is user-friendly.  That a person would know pretty much what to expect when they made a visit, and there wouldn’t be any curveballs.  This doesn’t seem to be the case because the priesthood of all believers encompasses a diversity of personality types each with their own way of doing things.  And if someone says the Spirit led them to do it like this, who can argue with that?

 

So I choose Anglicanism.  The uniformity of the liturgy and communion service gives me the  ‘quality control’ and assurance against vigilante charismatics I need.  Every second Sunday of the month, the Communion service incorporates an invitation to healing prayer.  As the organ plays you can go forward, kneel at the rail, and the vicar will place his hand on your head and voice a personal prayer customised to your concern.  No casting out spirits, no raised voices, no undignified falling backwards on the floor.

But does it work?  I commented to a friend who happened to be on the church council, that we never seemed to hear much about healing in the Anglican church (surprising considering healing was such a central part of Jesus’ earthly ministry).  She told me something that made my mind up once and for all.

She told me of a lady (without disclosing the name), who had gone forward to the rail to receive healing prayer.  And had indeed received a miraculous cure.  I was fascinated.   Was this something that might have got better by itself, or could it really be classed as a ‘miracle’?  She confirmed the latter.  BUT the details of this unexplained improvement in symptoms was told in strictest confidence, and my friend had to promise never to disclose this information to anyone.

This lady’s healing was clearly a source of embarrassment to her.

No testimony.  No glorifying God for the sake of expanding the Kingdom and bringing others to faith.  Secrecy for the sake of respectability at all costs.

 

I feel disappointed.  Disillusioned. Saddened more than anything.   I realise that the stigma attached to healing has become a cause of real division within the church, an inconvenient political fly in the ointment.

And yet I know more than anything That I want yo be involved in healing.  I want to help people overcome illness and suffering because I don’t believe this s part of the Father’s design for us.  And I believe it s possible to heal through the same transformative power that was demonstrated in Jesus, and that he promised would be available to us.

 

I love Jesus.  Passionately.  Deeply.  And I know that my soul is eternally ‘in Christ’.

But what I don’t know, what I’m unsure of is whether I will find an avenue of service within the church.

 

Where do I go from here?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Resisting ‘the will of God’

My interest in healing goes back a long way.

At a young age my father suffered a severe stroke that paralysed him, taking his speech which he never regained.  At the time I believed that he could be healed, yet the church to which we belonged didn’t seem to offer much hope. I couldn’t understand this because I had heard so many stories from the Bible of Jesus healing people.  I remember making a little notebook, copying out all the verses in the Bible I could find about healing and answered prayer.

“Ask anything in my Father’s name, and I will give it to you.”

“People came to him with their illnesses and diseases and Jesus healed them all.”

“Nothing is impossible with God.”

But I remember the minister telling me in a solemn voice that the Consultant’s prognosis was bleak. We were lucky that my father had survived the stroke.  It was very unlikely he would recover his speech or use of limbs and we needed to come to terms with the fact that things would be very different from now on.  We would have to adapt, and I would need to be strong for my Mum.

 

I remember feeling a terrible sadness inside, not just because of the doctor’s words, but more so the desolation that comes when hope is crushed. I felt isolated.  Abandoned with my naïve faith.

The minister meant well.  I could tell she thought I was in denial. She was waiting for some sign of acceptance from me.

Bible verses swam across my mind.

“A bruised reed he will not break, and a smouldering wick he will not snuff out.”

 

I didn’t want to look into that dark abyss. I didn’t want to face the reality of those long, long years of house-bound disability that were to stretch out in front of us.  And I didn’t want to be told I must ‘accept’ this by a minister of religion.

“The will of God is a mystery to us.”

“We don’t understand why things happen the way they do, but we must trust that God can use our suffering to help us learn and grow.”

I was familiar with this theology.  I’d heard it all before.  But up to that point suffering had never really touched my life.  Now it was happening to us I just couldn’t accept it.

 

Why should this happen?  My father was a faithful Christian all his life, working full-time as a social worker trying to help others, and in his spare time heavily committed voluntarily to mission and outreach.  We were already believers and didn’t need to be ‘brought to faith’ by some crisis.

I didn’t want to believe in a God that could’ allow’ or ‘will’ illness, disaster, disease, disability and all forms of suffering to teach us a lesson for our higher good.

That God would be a monster God.

Something inside protested. It was to stay deeply buried for many years.

But it started me on a search ….