Hints of Failure Part 1

I’ve been holding back a series of stories from this blog. The response to my last post, Divine Dice, has influenced this reluctance. I’m not proud of this, but it’s true. If you’re reading this post, you are one of not very many. The majority of my posts acquire about 60 views. Two of my most read posts maxed out around 400 views. Divine Dice is at 1020 and counting. 

In part, the conversations surrounding Divine Dice directly questioned my salvation. "She's deceived and deceiving," many cried. At first, the series of failures I've yet to share left me feeling particularly vulnerable - not a feeling I'm familiar with. Part of me didn't want to share anything to validate those who sought to undermine the validity of my life. 

In response to the religious minded who wanted to correct me, people I know and look up to spoke solidarity and life over me. My fear of vulnerability was a flimsy one, and soon I found it couldn't hold up to the sheer force of identity confirming love Dad made sure was heaped upon me from every angle of my life. From friends to teachers to strangers, the encouragement was almost overwhelming. 

One day, after visiting my friend at our mall's M.A.C. counter and walking away sporting new red lipstick, a passing stranger stared until I'd nearly walked past. "Wow! You are so sexy!" She gasped. 

I'm telling you, there was no area of my life and identity flaming arrows of encouragement didn't pierce. 

I write when God speaks. That isn’t to say you should believe everything I write. Or that every word I write was spoken by God. But I’ve found that writing of my own accord is tedious and draining. When I simply write in response to what Dad and I are talking about, the experience is life-giving and invigorating. I’ve started several posts only to find my mind immediately drained of thought and the act of typing like shoving bamboo shoots up my nails. Thus, I’ve only typed a few paragraphs before stopping. 

The stories I’ve been evading pick up right where Divine Dice left off: Halloween. After each experience, I thought to myself - definitely won't be writing that one up on the blog. I've had some time to reflect and distance myself from the stings of failure (at least, what felt like failure). Dad made sure my fear of vulnerability was taken care of, and gave me a desire to write. He isn't done talking about these failures of mine. So, if I want to write, I'll have to write about them. I needed the failures in order to recognize and receive the successes and revelations I'm seeing today. Likewise, anyone reading The Daily Heretic is going to need the same full picture.

This is no quick bandaid removal. Once I started writing, it was immediately clear this is going to take too many words for one post. Stick with me, and by the end of this series, we'll be... 

Somewhere.

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Part 1: The Leg

Post surgery x-ray. November 27. Photo by: Jen

After work on Halloween, I joined my husband Jeremiah and friend Claire to visit our friends Kendal and Jen. About two weeks before Halloween, Kendal broke his leg. Having a broken leg can be terribly boring and depressing; we hoped the company of friends in costume might help alleviate the monotony. 

Jen’s small living room had one couch, taken over by Kendal and his casted leg. The rest of us gathered around on chairs and the floor, chatting and laughing into the late evening. We enjoyed beer carried in from our favorite pub, and several varieties of chocolate and things covered in chocolate. It was in the midst of this merry, jovial room that I laid hands on Kendal for the third time since the break. 

The first time, I laid hands in the Spirit. Kendal texted me from the hospital, and I was stuck home without a car. I was frantic and frustrated, itching to lay hands but stuck twiddling my thumbs. I began to pray, and Dad reminded me of a post Praying Medic shared on Facebook, along with all the podcasts I’ve listened to Ian Clayton talk about spirit travel. Suddenly, I realized this was an opportunity for experience, and my frustration shifted into determination. 

I sat on my bed cross legged, closed my eyes, and asked Dad to take me to Kendal. It didn’t seem like anything happened, but I decided to lay hands on my own leg and believe it was Kendal’s. I checked the text again. “Hey sis, I broke my leg. At the hospital. Thought you’d want to know.” Surely enough, the text gave me no information about where the leg was broken or where to put my hands. So I closed my eyes again, asked Dad to take me to Kendal and show me where to lay my hands. 

Still, I seemed to be sitting on my bed nowhere near Kendal. But I felt a deep, intensifying longing lay my hands on my right leg. I put one hand just below my knee, the other a few inches above my ankle. After a few minutes of praying in tongues, I paused. “Is this right, Dad?” I tried moving my hands to my left leg, but swiftly felt as though I’d eaten over cooked spinach. I spit it out and moved back to my right leg with visceral relief. 

After a few moments, I wanted to touch my ankle, too. Perhaps craved would be more accurate than wanted. The craving started in my diaphragm and filled me until my fingers were twitchy and I couldn’t ignore it. Much the way I imagine an addict feels when craving cigarettes or coffee. I moved a hand to my ankle, and the craving was again relieved. 

About a week later, I saw Kendal for the first time since the break. He was rather drugged up and couldn’t drink alcohol, but desperately needed out of his house. He shot Jeremiah a text, and we met him at our favorite pub. He showed up wheelchair bound, his eyes heavy with exhaustion and boredom (and oxycotin). Jen relayed the details of the freak accident, while Kendal tried to focus and chimed in here and there. 

As Jen explained, it was early and dark in the morning when Kendal was dropping her off at her apartment. He stepped out of his car and down from the curb, onto a tiny skateboard hidden in the curb’s shadow. He twisted and fell, spiral fracturing his lower right leg in two places and chipping off a piece of his ankle. 

Kendal's cast. November 2. Photo by: Jen

While we talked, I pulled up a chair next to Kendal’s leg. Though dismayed at the extent of damage my friend experienced, I was encouraged to hear my attempted spirit travel confirmed. I laid hands a second time there in the pub, feeling confident that Jesus was working through me. 

At the pub, Kendal hugged me and thanked me for the healing, though he didn’t mention feeling anything, let alone feeling better. I informed him I’d be laying hands every time I saw him. On Halloween, dressed as Professor Trelawney, I took action out of commitment rather than confidence. Kendal and I were surrounded by friends, and by friends’ friends. Unwilling to skip the healing session, but not wanting to impose upon the festive atmosphere, I simply sat next to Kendal again and rested my hand on his cast. The beer I’d been drinking made my head swim, so I inhaled deeply and closed my eyes, trying to clear my mind and focus on Jesus. 

Before I’d had a chance to be good and ready to delve into a prayer, Kendal piped up. “Woah,” he said. “I can feel your hand.”

Horrified, my head snapped up and eyes opened wide. “Does it hurt? Should I stop? I’m sorry!”“No, it doesn’t hurt. I can just, feel it. It’s warm and tingly where your hand is.”

Relieved, I left my hand where it was and closed my eyes again. I waited for words to speak or truths to declare, but none came to mind. Instead, I began humming. Softly at first, then louder. No one seemed to notice; the conversation carried on.

“I can feel my blood, its like swimming around in my leg,” Kendal described. I smiled, and continued. Sometimes, I joined the conversation, laughing along with the others. Sometimes, I hummed, or prayed in tongues.

Exclusion and embarrassment are fears that have caused me enough anxiety in the past to avoid offering healing even when I’ve received specific words from Dad to do so.   Had I not been a little buzzed, I might have sought a more private space. My friends knew what I was doing, though; I’ve healed alongside each of them in the past. The others may have noticed, but didn’t seem to mind or even think twice about what I was up to. It was such a relaxed, enjoyable environment that exclusion or embarrassment simply weren’t factors.

On impulse, I moved my spare hand to the bottom of Kendal’s heel. “I can feel your hand there too,” Kendal said. “I haven’t had feeling there since the accident.”As the gathering dispersed to their Halloween festivities for the night, Kendal and I chatted about healing and Jesus and hope - a typical conversation for us. I left with restored confidence. Surely, God was up to something. 

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To be continued...

Part 2
Part 3