Hints of Failure Part 3.5

If you haven't read them yet, catch on up with Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3.

Part 3.5: The Knees Continued

On the second day of the tournament, I watched my sister's team win another game. While them play, stepping periodically into the spirit to make the blanket of clouds recede, I noticed five or six girls with knee braces either playing, warming up, or watching. I reflected on my own knee injuries. I thought about the first time my friends and I laid hands and witnessed healing - an ACL.

I want to heal every knee I touch, I thought. 

Then you’d better start touching knees, Dad replied. 

Just then, as if cued by a script I wasn't given, a girl entered the gym on crutches witha familiar looking brace on her knee. She wore the colors of Blue Mountain Community College - a team well favored to win the tournament (and did, in fact, go on to do so).

Blue Mountain was cheering for Spokane from the sidelines, shouting in support of Eastern WA. The girl on crutches sat down several rows in front of me, surrounded by a boy and friends and parents. You'd better start touching knees...

After Brittany’s team won, and before I said my goodbyes, I pulled Brittany aside. “Let’s go lay hands on that girl with the crutches,” I said. 

“That is the coach of Blue Mountain’s daughter,” she said. Apparently this was reason to shy away from appearing crazy in front of her. 

“Do you know if she tore he ACL?” 

“Yeah, she did. A week ago. And she’s still on crutches. Isn’t that weird?”

“Did your doctor give you crutches?”

“No, he told me not to baby it.” We laughed, and I made my way to the girl on crutches. By now, Blue Mountain was on their own court warming up. The girl was standing near the bleachers, bearing no weight on her left, braced leg, still surrounded by a gaggle of people. 

I put my hand on her should to get her attention and said hello, trying to look friendly. “What happened to your knee?” I asked. 

She smiled, trying to act like she knew me, because I was acting like I knew her. “Tore more ACL right in half,” she said.

“So do you play for Blue Mountain?”

She didn’t, she explained, but helps her dad. She tore her ACL hitting with the team during practice. While we talked, none of the surrounding gaggle paid us any attention. They turned to each other and let the girl on crutches talk with this other girl no one knew. 

“We don’t know each other,” I said brightly. For a moment, relief replaced the girl’s well-masked confusion. The confusion returned quickly, though, when she realized that didn’t explain why we were talking.  “I’m Kaylani, I played for your assistant coach in high school. My sister plays for Spokane. I actually need practice healing knees, oddly enough. My sister tore her ACL too, and I’ve done damage to my own. Do you want some healing?”

Hints of Failure Part 2

Part 2: The Dreams 

Halloween was a day of breakthrough. November has been a month riding that breakthrough's wave. These dreams have been teaching and influencing me throughout the ride; I've been reminded and re-taught about them daily.

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Dream 1

I was part of a group of ragged looking friends, walking through an abandoned city not unlike Olympia. We walked to the edge of the city and beyond, to an empty field surrounded by a sagging, dilapidated fence. We climbed the fence, and I noticed a single wire strung across the top. I explained to the others in my group that in days past, a painful force called electricity flowed through this wire, preventing animals from climbing over by shocking them.

When we crossed over the fence, the world changed. From outside the fence, an empty field. From inside, the same field. Empty, but for a single gnarled peach tree overladen with ripe fruit. We walked cautiously across the field toward the tree. The weight of the peaches bowed the tree’s branches toward the earth. The fruit was beautiful; oranges and pinks intensified against the stark, drab landscape and dull sky. 

I want to eat one of those peaches. The thought struck me before I had a chance to question it. Suddenly, I knew only one thing about myself and the world around me. I knew I was going to eat a peach. 

My group stopped to stare at the tree with me. As though we shared the same sudden onslaught of knowledge, we lurched toward the tree together. While the others made for the tree itself and climbed into its branches in pursuit of their treasure, I found a branch so heavy with fruit it had cracked and looked close to breaking. I gave it a tug, and it came crashing down. 

The peaches, which had looked so perfect from just a short distance away, were mostly all over-ripe and decaying. A sharp smell hung heavy in the air - fermenting fruit piled at the base of the tree. 

I was alone now. Just me and my peaches. I scanned my peach cornucopia for an unblemished fruit. There were dozens and dozens more to choose from; I felt sure the odds were in my favor. The moment my eyes locked onto a pristine peach larger than my two fists combined, I heard footsteps behind me. 

I turned around disappointed, expecting to see one of the friends I’d come with. I wanted this peach to myself. Desperately, I didn’t want to share it. 

Photo from Scientific American

Instead of my friend, I found myself face to face with a rhinoceros. “Give me your lunch money, kid” he seemed to say, large black eyes and menacing horn only inches from my face. I could feel the rhino’s breath mussing up my hair, stinging my eyes. 

Frozen, I knew I had only one chance to respond without getting trampled. The rhino stamped his foot, losing patience. Before I decided what to do, I found myself bowing slightly and opening my arms toward the fallen branch. Where I’d felt only selfish desire to consume peaches moments before, I now felt the warmth of gracious welcoming. 

“Please, eat all you like. There is plenty,” I told the rhino. He exhaled, nodded his head, and stepped forward. I remained still until he rifled through the leaves and took his first bite. Unbiased, the rhino ate the peaches whether rotting or damaged. I plucked up the prized, perfect peach I found before and bit in. Juice sloshed down my chin and arms; relief and calm washed over me. Not only was the rhino not going to kill me, something told me he’d protect me from here on out.


**edit: It was brought to my attention I had this dream Oct 29, and shared it the 30th, on a Facebook page called Dream & Vision Interpretation. I had totally forgotten. If you can, check the page out. It's great. Here's what I shared there (I'd also forgotten about the first part of the dream!):

I had a dream... long story short, two images stuck I'd like to throw at you for some feedback:

1) A weather map on TV of the Pacific North West, being described by the weather lady. The map was covered in white swirling storm systems. Solid white, unmoving portions of the map indicated avalanche warnings. Areas with high likelihood of the most severe avalanche were shaded deep blue. Those areas included Olympia, up through Tacoma, and over to Leavenworth. 

2) In a group of four or five people my age, exploring an abandoned city. We hopped a fence and found a peach tree. Large, very ripe peaches, though many were bruised and we couldn't eat them. Just as I though, what could go wrong, a huge rhinoceros walks up to me. I felt like he was threatening to steal my lunch money or beat me up. So I said, have all the peaches you want, and that seemed to please him. We all ate together. 

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Dream 2 

I found myself a member of my sister Brittany’s volleyball team. We sat gathered on couches in the team room, facing my sister’s coach. In a corner behind Coach, my dad stood watching silently. 

“This is not a democracy,” I heard Coach saying. “My decision aren’t up for debate. If you have a problem with that, there’s the door.”

I had a problem with that. For a few seconds I hesitated, hoping I wasn’t alone. But no one else moved or spoke. I stood and looked my coach in the eye, hoping she’d try and stop me. When she didn’t I walked out, turning the lights off behind me. 

A few paces out the door, I paused. I’d expected my dad to follow me. I turned around, waited. When it was clear he wasn’t coming, I knew I had to go back. I returned and noticed the lights were on. My dad was still in the corner, arms crossed, silent. There is something here worth witnessing, I heard.
 Before sitting, I apologized to my team and coach, trying to explain why I felt strongly enough to leave. “I can’t be part of this. It’s not right...” They listened politely, nodded with understanding, and said nothing to refute or encourage me. Deflated, I sat down, resolved to remain with my team despite the irrefutable objections that compelled me to leave. 

As Coach resumed her speech, I looked up to my dad in the corner behind her. 

Simultaneously, my alarm went off and woke me up. When I woke, two statements rang in my mind: 1) You’re a light in dark places; retracting light isn’t your assignment. 2) You will experience the urge to abandon something I’m not ready to move on from.

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I'll be interpreting the dreams as the series continues. Until then, feel free to use them for your own dream interpretation practice if you like! As always, thoughts, comments, and dream interpretations are welcome.

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. 

Living The Dream Part 2

Click here for Part 1

When I woke up from the school bus dream it was early and dark out, still a few hours before I needed to be awake. I fell asleep again and had a few sporadic dreams until I re-awoke to my alarm. The school bus and children running along telephone wires were as fresh in my mind as if I’d lived the experience rather than dreamed it. 

It is madness to wear ladies' straw' hats
and velvet hats to church..."

As I pulled my clothes on for the day and tidied my dreads, I asked Dad to interpret the dream for me. As quiet as I could commit my mind to be, I waited for a response. I waited and waited as I drifted through the menial tasks of the morning, until my mind wandered and I forgot I was listening. 

Instead, I started thinking about a conversation I had with my sister, Brittany. One of her teammates was sick with tonsillitis. “Go out and heal the sick,” Jesus says. And I wanted to heal this teammate. But she’d been left at the hotel the day before, in too much pain to watch her team play. I’d yet to see her. 

As I walked downstairs to meet my family, I was determined to find this girl and lay hands. With plenty of time to kill before the day’s games started, we ate slowly and played a story game until Brittany had to join her team for study hall. 

It wasn’t until my parents and I were about to leave the hotel that I recalled my determination to heal Brittany’s teammate. I marched quickly back to the lobby where Brittany was knee deep in Facebook while her gathered teammates worked on homework. “Hey!” I said, loudly enough to prompt Brittany to take off her headphones. “Where’s that girl with tonsillitis? Carmen, right?” I’d go to the room she’d been quarantined in, if I had to. 

“She’s right there,” Brittany replied with a gesture over her shoulder. Carmen sat on a giant beanbag with a blanket and a text book. Though she looked miserable, both she and my sister seemed amused by the interruption of their study session. 

“Do you want healed?” I asked Carmen as I walked toward her. 

“Yes!” She said, completely sick of being sick. Several girls glanced up, curious. But if they continued to watch, I didn’t notice.

“Great.” I sat down next to her, double checked that her throat was the location of her pain, then placed my hand on the right side of her neck. On a scale of 1-10, she said the pain was a 6. After a few minutes of prayer I asked if she felt any change in her pain level, but it remained a stubborn 6. 

I prayed again. “What do you feel?” I asked this time. 

“I feel really calm.”

 Calm. That could only be the Holy Spirit at work, so I prayed one more time. Once again, I asked what she felt and if the pain had changed. “Still a 6,” she said. “But I feel super calm.”

“Are you coming to the gym today?” She was. Certain that she was experiencing the peace of Dad’s presence, I decided to let Dad continue to love on her and leave more prayer for later in the day. Dad is a far better minister than I am. “Let yourself soak in that calm as long as possible,” I suggested. “I’ll check in with you and see how you’re feeling.”

Our team’s first game of the day was at noon. Again, I found myself in the bleachers surrounded by parents. Just as frustrated as yesterday by attitudes and conduct, I wanted to rant. I used to play volleyball until I hurt my knee, I imagined my rant beginning. They do not need your negative energy. The moment this thought crossed my mind, Dad took my back to my dream. 

I used to do this until I hurt my knee, my dream self had claimed. Instantly, Dad interpreted the dream for my spirit. I couldn’t rationally understand all I suddenly knew, but two solid details were sure. First, the school bus dream was portraying this moment. I’m in my dream, I kept thinking. Second, I couldn’t rant at anyone. I’d already seen the results, and they were no good. 

Living The Dream Part 1

One of my younger sisters, Brittany, played in a volleyball tournament over the weekend. She plays for Spokane Falls Community College. By the community college level, skills are honed and the game is fast paced. Though not necessarily more competitive than high school matches, certainly less painful to watch. 

"...The moment a mistake is made, it must be forgotten.
It’s an exercise of constant forgiveness and repentance."

Less painful, but not entirely painless. I’m a volleyball player as well. After playing through three years of college, two knee injuries, a few ankle injuries, and all the drama that comes along with a group of 12 women in close confines for any length of time, I still love the game. 

Watching others play is like a cat scratch on a sunburn for me. As a player, watching from the bench can be excruciating. However, watching from the bleachers surrounded by parents is a new torture I’m hoping I don’t have to experience enough to get used to. 

On the bench, I’d watch my teammates successes and feel they were mine. I’d watch their failures, and take personal responsibility to resolve them. If my outside hitter is getting blocked, I’d look at what the other team was doing and how my teammate (or myself, should I get subbed in) could hit around them. If the other team’s middle has three kills in a row, I’d look at my defense and plot ways for them to work in unity with my blockers to shut her down. 

As a player, the moment a mistake is made, it must be forgotten. It’s an exercise of constant forgiveness and repentance. When a mistake latches on to a player’s memory, it will begin chipping away at their confidence until they’re too crippled to play. Regardless of physical skill, volleyball is a mental game. The most successful players are those capable remaining focused and present; of forgiving their teammates and themselves instantly, and changing their mind’s desire to dwell on past and future mistakes. 

Through the Open Window

A Dream and a Healing

Recently, I’ve been imagining owning my own coffee shop. I’ve imagined this for years, but lately its been more matter of fact, not if but when. One of the ideas I’ve been getting really excited about is using the shop’s space after hours for creative, community centered events.

"The dream’s images came to mind again.
This time, I couldn’t ignore them..." 

For example, I’d love to shove the tables aside and teach yoga classes. They’d be a perfect environment to get people healed, and I’d call them “Yoga with Jesus.”

While imagining this, Dad reminded me of a conversation I had with a friend, Hannah. “I feel like I’m getting a word from God about yoga instructor certification, but I don’t think it’s for me. Maybe it’s for you,” she said. I smiled at the memory, brushing it aside as unlikely and implausible for a wide array of reasons.  

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In the dark hours of Tuesday morning, I had a dream. I remember a few specific images from the dream, nothing more. First, a pair of hands resting on someone’s back. The person wore a heather grey shirt, the dream’s perspective gave me no further detail. 

A moment later, I was given a broader view. I saw a wooden table that looked carved straight from a tree, from which an umbrella loomed. I was also engaged in a heated conversation with my employers that had me feeling heavy and oppressed. (I’ve never had such an interaction, I don’t expect to. I’ll interpret this part in a moment.)

When I woke up, the weight of that conversation stuck around. I felt flustered, unheard. For the most part the dream slipped my mind - had I not been wrestling with this negativity I’d have forgotten it entirely. “What the heck was that about?” I asked Dad. 

He reminded me, “You asked for adventure, correct?”

That was true, I agreed. I smiled, and the negativity I’d carried in from the dream realm dissolved. Eyes still bleary, I rolled over and pulled my computer onto the bed. There was a blog post I’d been putting off for a couple days ("Between the Coaster...") and I was feeling oddly eager to write it. Whenever that happens, I like to take advantage right away. 

I opened my computer, clicked the internet icon, and waited for Blogger to load. An error page popped up, informing me I didn’t have an internet connection. Being that I connect via the router in my apartment complex’s office, which is across the parking lot, this happens frequently. Sometimes closing and opening my computer gives me a fresh connection. 

I closed my computer and opened it back up. Multiple times. At the top of my screen, an exclamation mark blinked over my connection strength indicator. Since I’d never seen an exclamation used in such a way, I took it to indicate I wasn’t going to have any luck connecting to internet from home today. I packed up my things, jammed my helmet over my hair, and rode my moped through the rain to the coffee bungalow I work at. 

Though seating is outdoor, there’s a hefty table that looks as though it was carved from a tree with a wide umbrella that keeps at least a small portion of the table dry. A woman, one of my regulars, was already sitting in one of the dry seats, apparently waiting for a friend. I sat kitty-corner from her, pulled out my computer, and opened up Blogger with ease. 

Unfortunately, I recalled that much of my material for said post was derived from Facebook. I logged in, and was thoroughly distracted from the task at hand. On top of that, my table partner’s friend had arrived and they were chatting up a storm. Huddled around the driest parts of the table as we were, I couldn’t help but overhear most of their conversation. It’s incredibly hard to write anything when you’re listening to other people’s conversations, let me tell you.

I overheard some important details, though. Mainly, that my regular’s name was Alice (I’m terrible about exchanging names), and she’d recently injured her back. Though she didn’t have the means to got to a doctor or chiropractor, she has several friends who are healers and massage therapists she could visit. 

The images from my dream flashed through my mind, but I was busy and mostly ignored them. Except to note that Alice wore a heather gray shirt, just like the one the dream had shown me.  

Roller Coaster Dream

"'I'm afriad the ride will break,' I replied. The moment I
said it, I knew it was a fear as flimsy as injury or death..."
Photo by Kaylin Roback

I had a dream at end of July, just before I went to Southern California to visit a friend. We were planning on visiting Six Flags when we got there, so I'm sure that had something to do with the dream's content. I'm terrified of getting on roller coasters. The process of waiting in line is agonizing; I spend the entire time trying to calm myself down from an anxiety attack without drawing other ride goers' attention to myself. I freaking love riding them, though. Once I'm on and that first hill is behind me, I'm happy as a clam.

The dream opened with me in line behind a sea of blurry strangers, waiting to get on a roller coaster. I consciously noted the intensity of the dream's physical effects - the same gut flipping, lung collapsing anxiety I experience in the natural coursed through my body. I've felt such effects momentarily while dreaming, usually just before a fall wakes me up. This was different, though. I wasn't waking up, the dream had just started.

I took deep slow breaths. Tried to think about Jesus. Contemplated abandoning the line and skipping the ride. I couldn't move my legs for the fear that gripped me. Memory of roller coasters I've ridden in the past came streaming to me, as though a friend were showing home videos. I could almost feel the exhilarated joy as I stepped off each coaster. Every time, I wanted to go again. I was never disappointed I'd stuck it out and given the ride a go.

Physical anxiety brought me back into the present state of the dream, where I waited to board the coaster at hand. I'd been just as afraid and tempted to bail before every coaster before. Determined to experience the relief and thrill of the ride's end, I said aloud "I will get on the ride."

My mind was unwaveringly set. The thought of turning around no longer had any power. My veins pumped adrenaline throughout my body, I still felt terrified. Something, however, had changed. Something at the same time tangible and completely abstract.

A voice from somewhere outside myself, outside the ride's line, asked "What are you afraid of?"

I racked my mind. The immediate, and only fears I could think of were being hurt or killed. I brushed them aside like flys. I'll be healed or raised. And as long as the ride functions properly, neither were very possible. "I'm afraid the ride will break," I replied. The moment I said it, I knew it was a fear as flimsy as injury or death.

I began to discuss with myself and the voice whether my statement was true. Was I was actually afraid of the ride breaking? "I am a child of God," I concluded. "The ride will not break."

During the dream, this seemed a logical conclusion to a logical thought process. I think what essentially took me there was the realization that, if I trust my Dad, no fear except the fear of God himself was logical. And he wasn't causing my current terror. This wasn't "fear of God." This was an attack, rooted in a tiny chink in my armor created not by my mistrust of God, but by my unrealized and undeclared trust in Him. Once I realized I in fact trust my Dad, I also realized that my fear was lie.

Just as Jesus quieted the storm, my turning stomach immediately quieted. Calm washed over me. My body was relieved - every tensed muscle relaxed, the breath I held was released. The only thing left to do was get on the ride.

I am thoroughly sick of writing, thinking, and dreaming about my knee (See New Roads Part 1, and New Roads Part 2 if you don't know what I'm talking about). One of the reasons I haven't written in a while is every idea I've had seems to revolve around its damage. And I've determined that "No. No I will not write any more about my knee. Until its whole and I can write about the wonderful tingleys that occurred when it was healed."

Seems that Dad isn't done with the conversation, though. And I'm aching to write something that stirs up my spirit. I didn't realize the dream had anything to do with my stubborn, deaf knee, until  just as I was stepping up to my seat, I woke myself up saying "This is how you need to approach healing your knee!"

When I woke up, saying that aloud, it made perfect sense. I fell back asleep certain I'd had quite the epiphany.

This was a month ago. My knee is still damaged. Even in my dreams, I'm hindered by it (talk about distorted self image). I've been meditating and Dad's been speaking on the subject ever since, though. Stay tuned for Part 2, where I'll explore what the frack "This is how you need to approach healing your knee!" means, anyway.

New Roads Part 1

There was a period of time in my life, just a few years ago, when I didn’t have a relationship with Jesus but I knew deep down I believed everything I’d heard about him. Dad brought me into community with my peers, people I worked with and lived life with, who were in a similar place relationally in their walk with Dad. 

Together, we grew. We delved into our Bibles, ate together, we drank and smoked hookah and prayed. As our relationships with each other were knit closer and tighter, so were our relationships with Dad. None of us called God “Dad” when we first started. Now, I don’t think any of us uses the title “God.” We’ve gotten to a point in our relationships that “God” is too unfamiliar, too cold. Dad, Daddy, Papa, Father - are better words to describe our creator, our lover, our best friend. 

One of the big topics for me on my journey into relationship with Dad was healing. Any conversation, and chapter or verse, could lead to a conversation about Dad’s will to heal people. 

I think at the start, my friends and I wanted to believe God heals, but we all shared doubts and misgivings and painful past experiences. Slowly and methodically, though, Dad revealed his heart to us. By now, three years from the start of our Bible studies, I can’t think of a one of us who hasn’t been healed miraculously. Not one of us hasn’t been part of laying hands and getting someone healed. 

My friend Josiah had a headache one morning while we opened our coffee shop. I started praying for his healing while doing dishes (I was too nervous to offer to lay hands). Suddenly, he turned to me and asked “Have you been praying for my head? Because it doesn’t ache anymore.” 

Our friend Esa had a torn ACL when we met him. As a group, we all laid hands and prayed. He was too stunned to make a big deal about it, and we were too nervous to poignantly ask. Eventually, after months of him not using a cane or feeling pain, we all accepted that he was completely healed and we’d been part of it. 

My husband Jeremiah and I laid hands on our pastor's back on our way to the "alter," and he got better.

Two co-workers had kidney infections healed.

Our chihuahua survived getting hit by a mini van.

My mom's migraines don't stand a chance against these hands.

The first stranger I laid hands on, an elderly homeless woman with crippling back pain, said "Lot's of people have prayed for me. That's never happened."

She got up abruptly to leave, and as she made her way to the door I asked "Do you feel better?"
Without turning or pausing she shouted, "I'm walking aren't I?"

*One of my favorite stories happened a few months ago. Claire’s mom had to have surgery on her right shoulder. A calcium deposit was slicing through the muscles and tendons around the joint, causing overwhelming pain. Surgery took months to recover from, on top of the months of pain that led up to it.

Claire's sign: "Joy is a weapon."
Winter's sign: "Smile, the sun's out" 

Eventually, she did fully recover, but peace was short-lived. Inability to use her right shoulder caused her to overuse her left shoulder, generating new, painful issues.

Claire was sick of seeing her mom hurting, and wanted her healed. When Claire got to this part of the story, I almost danced for joy: “I really wanted to wait until you could lay hands with me,” she said. “But then I decided, ‘I don’t need Kaylani here, dammit, I can do this.’” So she laid hands, prayed, and her mom’s shoulder is doing just fine thank you.* 

We required extensive preparation, first of our minds and then, after some persuasion, our hearts, for Dad to convince us his will was that all are healed. We got involved laying hands sheepishly at first, and only on those we trusted. Every time we stepped out, Dad turned our faith into substance, into the evidence of things unseen. So often, that I began to offer healing to customers, and to coworkers who weren’t part of our Bible study, as did my friends. I can’t think of any who didn't experience God and get healed.

Until now, that is. 

The Sky Is Falling

Fireworks similar to those in my dream.
Photo from Josiah McLain, 7/4/11

This morning I dreamed I was walking downtown with a friend. We were having a long needed chat, and I was a little nervous.

"So, you're really excited about being kidnapped huh?" I asked her. While she explained all the signs and omens that pointed to the impending kidnapping she was so eager about, I saw a shooting star. I tapped her shoulder eagerly, apologized for interrupting, and pointed out where I saw the star.

Another one shot through the sky almost immediately. We both got excited and forgot about the conversation at hand while we stared at the sky, hoping to see more stars fall.

More did fall. Two, three, four more glittered through the sky. We watched happily until, before we knew it, huge patches of stars began falling.

Soon, it appeared as though entire galaxies were descending down upon us. Our delight became a wave of fear. "It's like the sky is falling," my friend said. "We need to sit down and pray right now."

We sat on the sidewalk and prayed while we continued to watch the sky. I began to form a picture of Jesus in my mind, saying his name aloud while focusing every ounce of my will to determine the sky wouldn't fall and end us.

The streets grew more and more crowded as people came out to watch. Panic make the crowd restless, but fear immobilized them. I continued praying, my voice shaky but growing stronger until I was speaking in tongues.

Suddenly, fireworks were launched. A few scattered sparkly ones at first - they looked much like the shooting stars. As people's attention was attracted to the fireworks, they began to question whether they'd ever seen galaxies falling or if they'd been watching fireworks all along.

Soon, they sky was so filled with pyrotechnic color, the stars were no longer visible and everyone had forgotten what drew them outside in the first place.

"It's a coverup," either my friend or I said. And I woke.

God and I talked about the dream while I got ready for my day. He reminded me of a few verses from Matthew 16. The pharisees and sadducees were demanding that Jesus show them a sign from Heaven. Jesus responds with something my dad has always said: "Red sky at night, sailor's delight. Red sky at morning, sailor take warning." Jesus's point was that the pharisees could interpret the weather signs, yet couldn't interpret the signs that pointed to Jesus being the son of God. (1-3)