God didn’t heal me today.
It doesn’t mean He isn’t going to.
It doesn’t mean He can’t.
It doesn’t mean I’m being punished.
It doesn’t mean He’s forgotten about me.
It doesn’t mean He doesn’t hear my prayers.
It means tomorrow I will ask again.
It also means tomorrow I’ll likely wake up in pain again. It means I’ll head straight to the tray on the counter full of orange prescription bottles and gulp down the first round of medications, feeling defeated before I even check my email. It means I’ll have to keep constant note of the time, so I can know when I’m allowed to eat and when it’s time for more pills, since there’s a delicate balance between medications to be taken on an empty stomach and medications that will ruin your day if you take them hungry. I’ll ask Him again, Jehovah-Rapha, the Lord who heals, to touch my body before I swallow these prescriptions. I’ll ask Him when I feel the pain. I’ll ask Him every time I glance in the mirror. I’ll ask Him when I’m doing laundry or unloading dishes or just sitting on the couch. I’ll ask Him when I feel that I need a nap. I’ll ask Him when I want to do more. I’ll ask Him when I see the moms who can do more. By the end of the day I’ll beg Him. When I take more medicines before bed. When I see my name on another prescription bottle and double-check the dosage to make sure this is the higher one, the one that is supposed to make a difference. When I fall into bed and turn on the heating pad. When I groan, ache, sigh. I beg Him to heal me, to touch me, to change me. Most of this I do in silence. Some nights it gets really bad and I ask others to ask Him, too. But He hasn’t yet.
The woman with the issue of blood in Luke 8 is often mentioned in sermons. She’s the woman who suffered an unknown ailment for 12 years, a condition that left her penniless after having visited numerous doctors who couldn’t help her, and ostracized for being unclean. For 12 years. This woman is hailed as a hero of faith for having believed in Jesus still after suffering for 12 years, having felt desperation but not hopelessness for more than a decade. In just a few months, I’ll reach the point at which my body has been fighting against me for 20 years. Twenty. If this Pain were a person, it would be old enough to drive, vote, and even hold some public offices. Two thirds of my life I have walked this earth with the knowledge that my insides were jumbled, that I was different from everyone else. That my understanding of pain was different from most others’. Two thirds of my life I have experienced pain – sometimes just aching, sometimes excruciating. I have cried, screamed, vomited, subjected myself to invasive exams, surgical procedures, chemicals, hormones, rude and dismissive doctors, and God. I still ask Him to help.
I know He’s there. He may not be walking past for me to reach the hem of His garment, and oh how I wish He would, but He’s there. He was there when I got my first positive pregnancy test. He was there when my firstborn almost wasn’t born. He was there when my second baby was born completely healthy with no complications. He was there when our third baby left us before we even had the chance to know him. He was there when our fourth baby had some scary test results, and there when we found out she was perfect. He’s spared me, comforted me, and shown me the miraculous. I know that the God who healed the woman with the issue of blood is the same God who knit me together. I know that the same God who created the Heavens is the same God who thought the world needed me. I know He can do it. He just hasn’t yet.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t get mad. Anyone with a chronic condition can tell you that there are good days and bad days, and sometimes both in one day, several times a day. On bad days I get upset with God. I get tired of asking for what I know He can give me, the same way my kids get mad when I don’t give them cookies they know we have. I don’t lie to them, I don’t hide the treats, I just know I’m not giving them cookies just yet. On bad days I’m so tired of recognizing symptoms that I don’t want to talk anymore. I don’t want to have yet another complaint to share, don’t want to drive anyone away with the negativity that lurks when someone asks how I’m doing. I don’t want to pull anyone else down, but I also don’t want to go through this alone. I need to talk about it or else I’ll imprison myself in this body and let illness become my master. The less I share the more isolated I become. On the good days I’m tagged and messaged by well-meaning people, people who don’t understand that oils and Plexus and diets don’t regrow new body parts. Lessening inflammation is nice, but ultimately only a miracle from God can truly heal me. On the bad days I’m told that I’m not praying enough, that I don’t have enough faith, that I don’t look sick, or that I’m not actually even sick at all. On good days, I calmly explain that surgery doesn’t stop the body from producing hormones. On bad days, I’m asked to defend myself, my choices, my intelligence, asked to remain patient while someone gives an opinion or asks an obvious question as though I’d never made the connection that exercise is supposed to cause weight loss. On bad days, when others’ expectations exceed my abilities, I get angry. When my own desires exceed my abilities, I begin to feel hopeless. On good days I can smile and function to the point where only I know I’m suffering. On bad days I want to cry and curse and hide from the world. I’m always honest with God about how I’m feeling, though it’s not as if He didn’t already know. Praying for something for almost twenty years will get you far past formal pleasantries with God. But whether a day is good or bad, God’s ability to heal me does not change. His power does not fluctuate, it is not seasonal. On any given day, God can heal me. He just hasn’t yet.
I know others who have suffered longer than I have. I know others who have suffered worse than I do. I know some who blame God and others who still turn to Him. I know some who have lost their battles and others who fight on. I know some who have been healed and many who are still waiting. No matter who I know, they all pale in comparison to the One I know in Heaven. The One I know can heal me. The One who offered His body in place of mine, who willingly took suffering upon Himself to give me the chance at a life without it. He is the One who knit me, who perfected me, who knows the hairs on my head and the desires of my heart. He knows my voice and He hears my prayers. I don’t know why God hasn’t healed me yet. I don’t know if I’m supposed to learn anything. I don’t know if He ever will. But what I do know is that He can, and so I will keep asking.