In this world, birth and new life are only brought forth in labour and pain (c.f. Genesis 3:16). This is one of the consequences of our fallen human condition. Each soul can find evidence of this pattern in their own story if they know what to look for; suffering leads to redemption and deep sorrow leads to deeper, lasting joy. But we often choose not to look. Moving through existence numb to the intricacies of our emotions is a lot less work than tuning in to the subtle shifts in our heart. And yet, what beautiful grace we miss out on by refusing to acknowledge and revisit the painful seasons of suffering that might become the soil in which seeds of greater faith and deeper love can grow.
In less than one month, I will be entering into the vocation of marriage. God willing, I will one day experience all of the joys and sufferings of motherhood, childbirth included. Surely at that time this relationship between pain and new birth, labour and life will become more tangibly ingrained in my body and soul. For now, I rejoice in the fact that God has given me a small glimpse into this human experience that he himself entered into and redeemed. And this portion of understanding that he has granted me is the fruit of a season of wrestling – with God, myself, and the enemy – that began over a year ago.
Winter is often referenced metaphorically as a season of darkness and anxious uncertainty. And for good reason. Human survival, especially before modern times, was often threatened during this season. Even now, winter in the northern regions of the world brings with it many questions and fears. Will the weather be favourable or cruel? Will storms come upon us unexpectedly? Will the sun’s limited hours be further shortened by the presence of clouds? Will black ice catch us unaware and wreak havoc? Will winds cut out our power and leave us feeling vulnerable and exposed? Will we be at the mercy of the elements and devoid of modern conveniences that shield us from the harsh reality of discomfort and want?
In February 2022, alongside the physical realities of winter the metaphorical realities sought to take up residence in my heart. The month began with having to move in and out of a new place in very short order for circumstances that were beyond my prediction and control. My confidence in God’s care for me and my ability to discern His will were seriously shaken when, after several months of nomadic existence and living out of a suitcase I found myself hauling many of my belongings out of the suite I had thought I would now be able to call home. For several nights afterwards I fought discouragement and tears while sleeping on the floor of my sister’s bedroom (she and her roommates, all university students, generously adopted me in my time of need). In my weaker moments, I joined my voice bitterly to the lament of the Jewish Chronicler: For we are strangers before You, and temporary residents, as all our fathers were; our days on the earth are like a shadow, and there is no hope (1 Chronicles 29:15).
Yet in all things God is faithful, and he gave me the wisdom to see his hand at work even in my distress. On one of my lowest emotional days I was prompted me to reach out to a friend for support. And by the grace of the Holy Spirit this opened the door for my now fiancé, Barnabas, to visit me in my time in need. The official beginning of our relationship, which has been a source of great healing and joy, can be traced back to this memorably vulnerable encounter which resulted from anxiety and restlessness.
Only a few weeks later, while on a hike with Barnabas and a young adults group, I slipped on ice and injured ligaments and a nerve in my right wrist. The physical pain at the moment of injury was acute, but the fear and dread that accompanied the instance unsettled me in my core. “Something is wrong!” cried my brain, but my heart echoed the cry even louder. I sensed that it was not only the movement in my wrist joint and the tingling in my fingers that prompted my stomach to tie itself in knots and my heart rate to increase. Though I could not identify it at the time, the physical wound I had incurred was a trigger for much deeper insecurities and fears of being alone, helpless, weak, and rejected in my pain.
When we returned to where I was staying, alone for the week, my anxiety only increased. Barnabas stayed with me for an hour to comfort me and make sure I was alright. He offered to pray with me for healing, and I accepted this offering with some reluctance. Skepticism and doubt battled for primacy of place in my mind as we spent time praying and waiting to hear God speak, to see him move. I felt very little during those thirty minutes, other than discouragement and pain, mixed with gratitude and astonishment at the faith of the man sitting next to me. At one point Barnabas mentioned feeling a sense of warmth coming into my wrist and asked if I sensed it too. I could not identify this physical sensation with any certainty, so I joked that it might have been the ice melting from around my heart. And while I spoke this spontaneously in a moment of jest, there was an intuition behind these words that God was after something greater than physical healing. He wanted to increase my faith and remove layers of self-protection from around my wounded heart.
Over the next few days, I felt myself surrounded by an emotional darkness, bitterness, and fear that seemed disproportionate to my circumstances. I would wake up in the middle of the night, feel a sharp twinge of pain, and cry out with sobs and angry laments to a God who felt distant and cold. I was surprised by the depths of my grief and feelings of abandonment, and yet they were not unfamiliar feelings. But I was only in the beginning stages of discovering why.
Appropriately, all this occurred shortly before the beginning of the liturgical season of Lent, traditionally understood as a “desert” season where God leads his people through purification and self-denial so that we are better prepared to receive the outpouring of his Holy Spirit during Easter. Ash Wednesday Mass, which marks the beginning of Lenten observance for Catholics, was where God began to reveal his plan for drawing me closer to him during this season.
As the cantor at my church, I found myself on Ash Wednesday, as on every Sunday, up in a choir loft overlooking the sanctuary. Normally this opportunity to use my voice in service to God filled me with joy, but the pain and dysfunction of my hand and the spiritual darkness I had been wrestling with for days pressed a heavy cloud upon my musical offering this day. There were moments during the Mass where I was fighting back tears, attempting (as I had on many occasions in my work as a vocal artist) not to let my emotions overwhelm me to the point of losing control of my sound. And yet, my heightened ability to feel the depths of what I was singing and to convey the laments of this liturgical season’s antiphons was not lost on me. While the congregation went up for Holy Communion (which the organist and I would receive last), I sang with great feeling these words of Psalm 60: O God, you have rejected us, broken our defenses; you have been angry; now restore us! You have made your people suffer hard things; you have given us wine to drink that made us reel. Give victory with you right hand and answer us, so that those whom you love may be rescued.
The antiphon that was repeated between verses became my own prayer to God as I walked up to receive the Body and Blood of Jesus after the communion line was finished: O give us Lord your help in time of suffering. “Give me your help, Lord!” I found myself pleading as I knelt in front of the altar to receive Him. What followed was one of the great graces of my life that I hope I shall remember for a very long time. As I returned to the choir loft, a deep conviction that God could heal me – and that he wanted to heal me – was stirred up in my heart. Having experienced the presence of Jesus in the Eucharist in powerful ways throughout my life, I was now struck with the realization that now was the opportune time to ask for that healing. As I knelt in silent prayer, the story of the hemorrhaging woman in the gospels was brought to my mind: “If I only touch his garments, I will get well” (Matthew 5: 28). My prayer then began to flow effortlessly, and I spoke freely to God.
“Jesus, if what I believe about your Presence in the Eucharist is true, I have not only touched your garments but have received you into myself. This means your Precious Blood, which has the power to save and to heal, is in me very tangibly right now. Jesus, I beg you to bring healing to my body right now through the grace of this Sacrament. I believe Lord, help my unbelief.”
Within seconds of finishing my prayer, I began to feel what I could only describe as a current of electric energy flowing through my arm and down into my hand. There was a burning sensation that felt like fire, but it was not a destructive fire. Instinctively I knew this was a healing pain, and I fervently prayed for more of it. I became temporarily incapable of moving my arm or fingers because of the energy that was pulsing through them, and it felt as though someone was knitting together rips and tears in my hand and wrist with a laser. I could trace its movement tangibly with my mind.
When the current subsided I was in shock. Tentatively, I removed the brace I had been wearing on my wrist and began to test my movements. I discovered I had greater freedom and far less pain that I had been experiencing only moments before. Tears began to stream down my face. “I’ve been healed,” I whispered incredulously. I wanted to tell everyone. I started with our priest, my friend who was playing organ, and my parents (I had moved in with them after my injury since I was unable to drive and perform basic daily tasks). My mom was not at all surprised. “God is in the business of healing,” she said. “Yes, I know,” I replied, “but never before with me.” And it was true. I realized then that my skepticism had been not of God’s power and ability to heal, but of his desire to heal me. My lot was suffering, I was convinced. Why should I expect anything else?
This was the beginning of several weeks in which my faith was greatly stretched and tested. That night, I discovered I had not been fully healed. Several motions and basic movements still provoked pain that I had not experienced before the injury. When I responded, by grace, to accept this invitation to faith I would resume my fervent prayers for healing, convinced that He who had begun a good work in me would bring it to completion (Philippians 1:6). God responded to this with further healing action, as the electric current sensation would return, and I would feel with great confidence that the soundness of my still relatively incapacitated hand was being restored. This happened on three or four separate occasions. At other times, I found it difficult to act in faith and hold onto hope when struggling with basic daily tasks like getting dressed, brushing my hair, showering, or using a fork and knife. Facing my physical and spiritual limitations in these moments was discouraging, but by grace I never doubted that God was healing me (though his timeline for doing so was surely different than my own).
In each of these moments of encounter with the healing power of God my faith was renewed. Truly I would not be able to speak confidently of God’s ability and desire to heal each one of us if it weren’t for this testing of my faith and revelation of his love for me during Lent in 2022. And yet, this was only the beginning of the healing journey God had in store for me. In my next post, I hope to tell of what happened in following weeks and months that led to yet another revelation of truth. Through more difficult yet beautiful lessons God showed me that I needed to have my mechanisms of self-protection and self-reliance removed if I was to be truly open to receiving and revealing His inifinite love and mercy.
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