You would think, as a Jesus blogger, I would write and write and write about that time I got miraculously healed. I mean, miraculous healing, that is some good click bait right there. A year and a few months ago I had a publisher tell me they would be interested in that book, the one about my miraculous healing and how my feelings about it are more jumbled and complicated than I ever expected. I should at least write the proposal. And I meant to. I did. I meant to write the book proposal about waiting and waiting. About the grace in between. About the teeny tiny miracles of good friends and understanding teachers that sustained me. I meant to write the book proposal about the ways other healing stories were used like weapons against me, how I hold mine close so that no one can be hurt by it. I meant to, I mean to, I want to. But it isn’t just messy inside that story. It is tender and raw and just feels so precious and precarious. But I think it might be time. This story is leaking out bits at a time. It is very dear to my heart, as is this piece I wrote for the Mudroom.
“Wondering what it means to follow a God who points to his scars as a sign of resurrection.” – Antonia Terrazzas
It is the Thomas part that they always harped on in Sunday school. Thomas, the guy who was doubting, the guy who didn’t believe. It was not the Jesus part, and it certainly wasn’t the scars part.
But if we believe, as Thomas believed, once the proof of the resurrected body was in his hand, then we must believe that our savior was resurrected, scars intact.
I was twenty-six when I was miraculously healed. Five years free of fibromyalgia I am still trying to learn how to function in a body that is no longer broken. I had spent so much time shutting down the mis-fires that I still have trouble knowing when I have to go to the bathroom, or when I am totally exhausted. I still push my limits too far, because I think I must to survive.
I was just one year healed when the son of a friend was diagnosed with chronic fatigue and fibromyalgia. I could not believe how angry I was. All the rage that I thought I had expended on the lap of my mother in high school exploded in my living room. Him too, God? Really? I found myself red faced and weeping in front of a Facebook status asking for prayer.
I may have been healed, but there was still plenty of evidence of where I was once wounded. So deep I could put my hands into them, the places I had been pierced.