The next Saturday, there was a lot of excitement in the house. My sister had flown in from Nashville to hear one of her favorite speakers, who was holding an all-day seminar at the church. We had prepared for it all week. One of the ushers at the church was a massage therapist and had extended his services to me, free of charge. We hoped it would help relax my muscles enough to get me through the long day ahead.
Again, I kept my mind open. The speaker had a very gentle voice and a very, very, strong energy. Maybe it was just me, but he seemed to be connecting with me. We made eye contact several times. There were nine hundred people in that room and I thought he was talking to me. All I did that day was allow his words in. Their meaning would become clearer to me later.
At one point, I wondered if someone told him I was a musician. He walked over to where I was sitting, looked right at me, and said, "Play your music!"
My mother was sitting on one side of me and my sister on the other. They both squeezed my hand at the same time. They must have thought he was talking to me too.
My mother always was my biggest fan. If there were an opportunity for me to play and sing, she would encourage me to take it. She told me that she had hoped, while I was in town, that I might play for a few of her friends. She now thought I probably wouldn't want to, since I was still hurting so badly.
"I would love to," I said, almost jumping out of my chair.
"Really?" she asked. "Won't that be too painful?" "Actually," I told her, "the only time I don't hurt, is when I’m singing. It's always been that way."
"Oh, really . . ." she said.
She put together a little gathering at her house. Every year, she put up the most incredible Christmas village. The department store windows had nothing on her. She invited her friends over to see the village, and she told them that I would play a couple of songs. We all enjoyed hot cider, doughnuts, and the pleasure of each other’s company. Then I played.
Until that moment, I had forgotten how it felt not to hurt. I was doing so much of what the doctors recommended, that I didn't have the time, or the strength, to pick up my guitar.
I was no longer paying attention to the people in the room. In my mind, I was wandering through all of the places I sang about. One of the reasons I believed playing my music was selfish, was that it always made me feel so good.
After a while, I returned to reality, and decided to let our guests off of the hook. By now, I was sure they were just sitting there out of courtesy to my mother.
One by one, they got up to leave. Something felt different. As they came to me to say good-bye, they were wiping tears from their cheeks. Then, they thanked me. They thanked me! They allowed me to filter out my pain and then thanked me for it. You would have thought I had done them some great service. After they left, I went to bed. The pain returned.
My husband had been calling me every day to check on my progress. I would fill him in on all the things we had done, and tell him about all of the people I had met.
During the phone call he made to me, two days before Thanksgiving, he asked, "Are you getting any better?"
"Well," I said, "people tell me that I am looking better! I am learning a lot. It just may take more time before I am healed. I will have to work on it when I get home. I may not be better when I get there."
"Why not?" he asked, with real sincerity.
"I don't know," I replied. ". . . I just don't know."
There was a Thanksgiving Eve service at the church. I was looking forward to it. It was the last opportunity I would have, before leaving on Saturday, to soak up the energy from all the wonderful people there. The minister sent volunteers with microphones, out into the congregation. Then, he asked for people to tell everyone what they were thankful for. One by one, they stood up and gave thanks.
A voice in my head was telling me to raise my hand. I wanted to thank everyone who had been so kind to me. People who took time out of their day to think of me . . . to pray for me. My mother and father certainly deserved a public "thank you" for having so much faith in me . . . for standing by me and loving me, no matter what.
My hand never went up. I was too afraid. What if I didn't have the strength to stand on my own? I didn't want to embarrass them. I sat through the service, not really listening . . . ashamed I hadn't taken the opportunity to speak. Old feelings of failure began to creep into my mind. Once again, I had let everyone down. I had done everything I was asked to do. I had kept an open mind, believed in my mother, trusted in the faith of others and tried to learn by listening to their voices. It hadn't produced any results. What more could I possibly do?
Feeling all alone at that moment, I thought, "I gave it my best shot. God, where are you?"
"I am right here!" a loud voice said, clearly.
It was so loud, it startled me. I thought someone was standing behind me, speaking to someone else. There was no one there.
"Don't you know how long I have been trying to reach you? Don't you think it's time you start paying attention to what I've been saying to you your entire life? Every time I think you're listening, you tune me out, and try to do everything yourself. You’re not alone, you've never been alone. You have only alienated yourself. Can't you see me in all of these people . . . your mother and father, your husband and your children? Can't you hear me in their voices? Your voices? Your voice is my voice. Don't you know, the only way I can shine through you, is if you let me? The love I have for you isn't any less than that of yours for your children, or your grandchildren. It is the same. Your love is my love. All love is my love. Let go. Let me love you."
Before I realized it, the service had ended. Most of the people were filing up the aisles and out of the doors. Not everyone was leaving. There was a very strong energy surrounding me. A couple of people had circled me and were holding their hands out toward me. There was a spasm building up in my back; the worst I had ever felt. Suddenly, I felt a stronger burst of energy. The spasm stopped. I looked over my shoulder and saw the face of an angel. She didn't have wings or anything. She was more like a woman with a hologram of an angel superimposed on her. She felt warm.
I looked up at my mother. She asked me if I wanted to leave.
"No," I said, "I don’t want to leave." I wanted the angel to come closer. She did. My mother stood in front of me, I felt the warmth and energy bouncing back and forth between her and the angel. There was no time or space. It was as though I was being lifted. Lifted out of my body, out of my ego. Everything God had been trying to tell me my entire life, rushed into my mind. Playing out like a full-length movie, only at supersonic speed. Suddenly, I knew.
"See?" the voice in my head said, "now that you have changed frequencies, you will hear more clearly in the future! Now get up!"
Without any pain, anywhere in my body, I got up. My dad offered me the wheelchair.
"No, thank you," I said. "I don't need it anymore."
I looked around me at the people who were witnessing what was happening. A beautiful warm light was shining on all of us, connecting us. We were captivated.
I walked, or should I say floated, up the long aisle of the sanctuary. There was so much energy flowing through me, I wanted to touch everyone. I wanted to share what I had received. I couldn’t wait to share it with my husband.
All the way back to my home in North Carolina, I felt complete and utter peace.
My husband kept looking at me like he was seeing me for the first time. “You've changed," he said. "Something has happened to you besides your back being healed."
I just smiled and said, "All of me has been healed!"
After we got home, he took me out for a wonderful birthday celebration. We talked for three hours over dinner, about the miracle that had changed our lives forever. When dessert arrived we looked at each other with a sort of giddy anticipation. It was a chocolate fondue with fresh fruit.
“Go for it,” he said.
I did. It was the first chocolate-covered strawberry I had eaten in twenty-eight years. I was in heaven!
Everything is so clear to me now. I think about how perfect we all are when we are born. We know God. It seems we spend the first part of our lives learning to forget Him, and the second part trying to find Him again.
I do have a mission. It is to love everyone, including myself . . . to let God's voice be heard through mine, however He sees fit. And if I let Him speak, someone else may also be . . .
. . . lifted.