Every injury (and I haven’t mentioned them all) could be traced back to some crossroad in my life. Each time, I would hear those voices in my head, each time, I would try to tune them out. I would pack the injuries into my bags, chalk it up as another failure, and go along my merry way.
This time, I had been wounded so badly that I couldn't even pick up my bags, let alone walk away with them. How was I going to get myself out of this mess? I was sinking into a depression. As if the physical pain wasn't enough. The look on the faces of the people around me told me that something had to be done. The one thing I never wanted to do, was to harm anyone else. My loved ones were suffering when they looked at me.
Periodically, through my life, I suffered from extreme migraine headaches. I would put up with them as long as I could, until the nausea and the ringing in my ears set in. When I finally couldn't take it anymore, and had tried everything else, I would go to my mother. She let me lay my head in her lap, and then she would put her hands on my head. We would be quiet. Usually, within minutes, the pain would subside, and I would wonder why I waited so long to get help. Mom would kiss me on the head and smile.
My mother once told me that she almost died, as a child, and my great-grandmother put her hands on her and she was healed. Whatever it was that her grandmother passed down to her, was truly a gift to me.
"Maybe my mother could help me now," I remember thinking. "Maybe, if I go to her, she can take away this terrible pain!" The voices in my head were almost cheering. I told my husband that if I made this trip, I would return to him "whole". He believed me. It was two weeks before Thanksgiving.
My husband drove me half way to Michigan. My mom and dad picked me up, and brought me the rest of the way. The trip took its toll. By the time we arrived at my mother's house, I was having continuous spasms.
My toes were cramping so badly it looked like I had curly fries at the end of my feet. It was agreed, the best thing for me to do that evening, was to take some pain medication, put some ice on my back, and go to bed.
The next morning, my parents took me to church. By this time, walking was no longer an option, so my dad brought me a wheelchair. First, my dad wheeled me around, then my mom wheeled me around, then they finally parked me off to the side of a large hallway. I had never seen a church like this before. The place was huge, and there were people everywhere. All of them, smiling.
The last thing I wanted was to draw attention to myself, so naturally, my parents introduced me to everyone they knew. They knew everyone!
One by one, everyone I met smiled at me, touched me and prayed for me. I felt the warmth of them, all the way to my spine. They welcomed me and I didn't feel threatened. More importantly, I didn't feel judged.
The leader of the church came over to me. She knelt down, held my hand and prayed for me.
With conviction in her eyes, she said, "I know you will be healed."
As I sat down-front in the main sanctuary, next to my father, my voices were still. There was nothing going through my mind. All I was doing was listening. I was open for anything . . . any message. There was an energy that connected everyone in the building. I felt honored to be there. The music was angelic. The message was love.
After the service, I was again passed between my mother and father, each taking a turn pushing my chair. They introduced me to even more people. These people, who had never seen me before, began to offer me their help . . . whatever they could do. Everywhere I turned, I saw someone reaching out to me, touching me, loving me.
This had to be it. This must be the right place for me. Any minute, I was sure to get my miracle. With so many people praying for me, asking God to heal me, how could He say no? They were clearly all good people. Very spiritual. Open-minded and open-hearted. They seemed to have miracles going on around them every day! With their help, along with my mother's, it was only a matter of time before I would be healed.
So why wasn't anything happening? Why was I still in so much pain? I had come there with an open mind and faith in my mother. What was missing? Was someone holding out? Maybe forgetting to put a stamp on their message to God? I wasn't giving up. There was something there for me, and I was going to wait for it to find me. So there I was . . .
. . . waiting.