This sections of my blog is a random collection of articles about me personally. I had no idea where to start but when I was waking up this morning God showed me This was great, because I had much of this written.
There will be other things sprinkled in this ‘whatnot’ section, but I definitely want to take you on a journey of my life of miracles. Here is the first one that I remember.
Christmas Eve of 1967 I received the first outright miracle that I remember. I was nine years old.
I lived on a farm in western Oklahoma in a tiny frame house of about 700 square feet. It had two bedrooms, a kitchen, living room, and a small added on utility and bathroom, equally tiny.
Being an only child in a very dysfunctional home, I often felt isolated. My father was an alcoholic, and he and my mother fought continually. It provided, at best, a very tense home life. My mother’s distress over issues with my father, our poverty, and life in general caused her to be unhappy and short-tempered.
Our relationship, as I look back on it knowing all I do now, was not normal or healthy for either of us. That story is for another day, so let me just assure you that there was a love-hate relationship between my mother and I. At nine, I did love my mother dearly, and continued to love her throughout my life although, in later years often from an emotional distance.
Both of my mother’s brothers were medical doctors. I hated it! Family visits meant shots, and check ups, and were never just a fun visit with my cousins.
I would guess I am in a small minority of children who were chased around a room when it came time for a shot, or argued with the doctor for what seemed like hours when they didn’t want their throat swabbed. Needless to say, I always lost and was always furious about it.
Getting sick was more to me than for most children. I hated it with a passion, and so did my mother. I always felt she was angry at me for disturbing her life, but honestly, I think she just had so much to deal with that she could barely stand one more thing. So, her frustration poured out on me. I felt rejected and alone.
On Christmas Eve of 1967, I developed an earache. By evening it was so horrible I wanted to writhe in pain, but with great self-control, I held in the fact that I hurt. I kept hoping it would get better, but it didn’t. I would guess somewhere around 8 o’clock I thought I was going to die from pain.
I went into our tiny bathroom, shut the door, and got down on the floor in a prone position. I pulled my knees up to my chest and my forehead rested on my hands, which were resting on the floor.
I cried out to God. Quietly, of course, so it would be just between God and me. I was in excruciating pain and I wanted it to stop. I had suffered for hours and did not want to ruin my mother’s evening by telling her I was sick. She was already irritated with my father. I had left them both in the living room having yet another ‘discussion’.
So, I cried out with all the fervency a nine-year-old child could muster. It was heartfelt and honest. Then suddenly, as I was praying, the pain just stopped. It stopped so suddenly and completely that it startled me.
I stopped praying and just allowed myself to be quiet to sense if it had indeed stopped. It was gone, completely gone. No pain whatsoever. I was overwhelmed with gratitude. I stayed in the bathroom for a while, just gushing with gratitude to Him.
Then, I dried my eyes, washed my face, and went back to the living room. I never told my mother or my father what had happened or that I had been sick.
The healing was miraculous, but let me add more insight to increase the awe of it all. I did not live in what you would call a Christian home. My mother, occasionally, would take me to the little community church in our small town. But more likely she would just drop me off and then go to her friend Maxine’s house to work on the crossword puzzle in the Sunday paper until church was over.
The little community church did not, I assure you, talk about the miracle working power of God. As an only child, it was a fun and social thing for me to do. I remember the Sunday School classes where we had felt boards, and the teacher told the stories of Moses, Noah, and the greats of the old testament.
So, how did I instinctively know at nine years old, that I could go to God in prayer for healing? I have no idea. How did I know to cry out to Him in a humbled posture of surrender? I have no idea. But, I do know that he was not a stranger to me at that time.
He and I knew each other. I never remember a time when I did not know Him. I remember talking to Him as a very young child. When I played, I played and talked to Him. He was always there in my heart and in my mind, and I have no idea how or why.
Through the years, as I have said that I never remember not knowing God, others have responded that He is there with all children. I believe that is so. But, I feel eternally grateful that He was not only there with me, but that I was acutely aware of Him.
I know that the Spirit of the Lord, the Holy Spirit, led me to cry out to God that evening in prayer for my healing. I pray each and every day that I am led forward with that kind of innocence and childlike faith, always.
I want to encourage you to leave me any comments below. They are so encouraging and motivating to me.
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