New Roads Part 2

Familiar Spirits

[For an audio version of this post, play the video at the bottom of the page.]

When I wrote Part 1, Dad had been speaking to me about "familiar spirits." I didn't realize that's what we'd been conversing about until recently. The term "familiar spirits" isn't mine, it's one I've heard used by folks who've spoken words about the concept that resonated with me. Whenever I use the term though, it feels a little foreign and religious. I don't like it, but I don't have anything better just yet.

I'm going to discuss a little of my experiences over the past couple weeks recognizing and addressing familiar spirits related to my knee. I'm not going to go into real extensive detail over the theology behind the concept because I think its been covered very well by others.

One great source for theology on the concept is The Company of Burning Hearts, a team in Wales, UK founded by Justin and Rachel Abraham. They've got a free podcast; if you haven't downloaded it I recommend it. Not because I agree with everything their speakers say, but because every time I listen, they're speaking about something ridiculously relevant in my current conversations with Dad.

The Podcast below, "Episode 30 - Familiar Spirits," is Ian Clayton speaking on June 25th 2011. I found it last week, after asking Dad for something to listen to while trying to get my knee healed. The title didn't catch my eye, because I wasn't looking to learn about familiar spirits. Something about the description engaged me, though, so I hit play.

A reference to the Lone Ranger and Tonto early in the podcast confirmed I was on the right track; it was the third unsolicited such reference I'd encountered in a day or two. If you're giving it a go, Ian gets good and poignant at about 5:50. I read American Gods by Neil Gaiman recently, and Ian hits on exactly the message I received from that book.



As I listened, I began to recognize the moods I've been experiencing since injuring my knee were very much what Ian was describing. A literal dialogue in my mind speaking lies directly aimed at my identity and relationship with Dad. Beyond that, I began to recognize that I hadn't heard that dialogue in a very long time, but I had heard it before - word for word - when I last tore my ACL. Deja vu.

While I laid hands on my knee, the image of a heavy wooden door came to mind and I spoke the words "I close the door this injury opened." I then invited Holy Spirit into my knee via a door I built just for Her. I'm still weeding out familiar spirits, but they're getting less and less frequent (at least in regards to my knee).

Seems like in the moment I first injured my knee years ago, a door was created by a brushfire of fear, fueled by Fword-inducing pain. That door has been open until now. When it was open, I'd take authority and clean house of familiar spirits, only to have more walk right in. Now, they leave and have no entrance through which to return with friends.

That's my best effort at describing this thing that's happening, at least.

This time, when I injured my knee, I was quite calm in comparison. I knew exactly what had been done. I didn't cry or curse. Immediately, my mind went to Jesus and I began releasing healing. The moment I hit the ground, I rebuked the pain. My friend Meghan sat by me and laid hands, too. What an awesome place to get healed and demonstrate Dad's presence, I thought.

I don't want to say I wasn't healed, or I'm not healed. I firmly believe, in fact, that I am healed.

The evidence remains, though, that my knee is quite swollen, often painful, and limited to a restricted range of motion.

New Roads 1.75 (Re-Release)

Blackberries 

I'm re-releasing this post with a reading by yours truly. I'm hoping to engage with anyone who hates reading, which up till now hasn't been the case. I don't know why the finalized version of the video decided to chop off my forehead, I'll have to work on that for future releases. Featured music is "All Men" by Simon The Leper from the You Are OK E.P. Find it at http://simontheleper.bandcamp.com.

I'm writing this dystopic fiction story novel thing. It's called Extinguishment. Or Fire Starter. Or neither of those. I started writing it last November for National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) and have been fiddling with it ever since. 

A detail I've been really trying to grasp is one of the main settings: Olympia, after being deserted and completely unoccupied for at least 200 years. My characters have moved in, they're setting up camp, they're galavanting through the ruins and finding all kinds of cool crap. 

So what do they see? Smell? Stub their toes on? 

I've imagined they'd find an ample supply of coffee, a printing press, some houses still standing, old cars, heaps and heaps of plastic water bottles. Tumwater Falls is the only source of potable water left in North America; communities have been established at The Falls, and in the train tunnel downtown. 

Plant life has been a major factor in how I picture this new Olympia. Since November, I figured the whole place has been completely overtaken by blackberries. With no natural predator and no people to tame the bushes, it seemed logical. 

The ground, except where roads were paved, is completely overgrown with the thorny bushes, greatly restricting already restricted travel. Not to mention the spattering of hybrid blackberry bushes whose genetic makeup fused with nano-bots and evolved highly lethal, shooting thorns. So basically, you travel the paved roads, or don't travel. 

 As I mentioned in Part 1, I had a vision about blackberries. These are those blackberries. 

I sat in the living room in our new apartment with my knee elevated, trying to ignore the boxes and piles of random crap that needed unpacked. With no internet or television to distract me, I opened my notebook and started writing. Almost immediately, I hit a wall in the story that required a more firm understanding of the setting. Something told me the current blackberry situation wasn't going to cut it. 

With a sigh, I said "Dad, what does this Olympia look like?" I started to imagine a tropical climate (I've been learning about climate change). Not only have the pines been replaced with palms, a natural enemy to blackberries has been introduced. The tropical plants, both natural and hybrid nano-bot beasts, grow in such abundance the blackberries are almost completely choked out. 

Almost. They did find a means of survival. 

The asphalt used to pave our roads has rendered the soil beneath toxic. None of the new tropical plants can grow where asphalt was laid. So, where we now have roads, there are rivers of painful and lethal blackberries. 

Suddenly I realized there are no roads in my story. Likely, no one in my story even knows what roads are. They're creating new roads out of necessity, and don't even realize it. 

I started writing again with vigor. It wasn't until a few days later, when I wrote Part 1, that I realized God had given me this vision. Here I was, thinking I tapped into my own vast imagination. If you'll remember with me, though, I asked Dad a question. He's faithful about answering questions. 

Cool. SO. Not only did this imagery give me context for my story, it also gave me context for the shift me and my fellows are experiencing. 

We're stepping into a new climate, and engaging relationally with Dad in ways that we haven't been taught. The roads that got us here won't get us much further. We're going to need to not only take new roads, but take paths that won't exist until we travel them. 

There's a story in acts 10. A friend I call Wee Todd brought this story to my attention while praying with a group of awesome folks at an explosive Memorial Day BBQ (which I'll need to tell you about in the next post.) I'd never heard this story, but Dad flipped my Bible open to it a few days ago (another story I'll need to tell you about). 

Celebration!

3,000 Pageviews

Woo! Yeah!

I wanted to snag a screen shot right at 3000 but I was too late. 3005 it is.

Dad told me to celebrate this milestone. In response, I expressed some apprehension. Come on Dad, 3000 is a big number for me but what does is really mean? And anyway, there are blogs that probably get 3000 views on a single post. It's taken my all time history to rack up those digits!

Anyway, I'm not writing for views. I'm writing for the sake of my health. So, there, Dad. Why must I celebrate? 

He kept at me, prompting me with the idea for a screen shot and a blog post. 

As if to reiterate my own misgivings, a couple bloggers I follow happened to post Facebook statuses mentioning things like "This post got 60,000 views so here's a collection of my most popular..." 

Rather than celebrate for my fellow bloggers, I immediately began comparing myself. Almost as immediately, I thought: Crap. I'm missing the point. 

So here it is. A celebration of those who've clicked on my blog, those who've stuck around to read, and particularly those who comment and/or share. I even used colorful font up at the top, there. 

I need to write because it is my art. I enjoy writing about my relationship with Dad because it helps me digest. That a single person feels compelled to read blows my mind. Thanks friends! You're awesome!

New Roads Part 1.75

Blackberries 

I'm writing this dystopic fiction story novel thing. It's called Extinguishment. Or Fire Starter. Or neither of those. I started writing it last November for National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) and have been fiddling with it ever since. 

A detail I've been really trying to grasp is one of the main settings: Olympia, after being deserted and completely unoccupied for at least 200 years. My characters have moved in, they're setting up camp, they're galavanting through the ruins and finding all kinds of cool crap. 

So what do they see? Smell? Stub their toes on? 

I've imagined they'd find an ample supply of coffee, a printing press, some houses still standing, old cars, heaps and heaps of plastic water bottles. Tumwater Falls is the only source of potable water left in North America; communities have been established at The Falls, and in the train tunnel downtown. 

Plant life has been a major factor in how I picture this new Olympia. Since November, I figured the whole place has been completely overtaken by blackberries. With no natural predator and no people to tame the bushes, it seemed logical. 

The ground, except where roads were paved, is completely overgrown with the thorny bushes, greatly restricting already restricted travel. Not to mention the spattering of hybrid blackberry bushes whose genetic makeup fused with nano-bots and evolved highly lethal, shooting thorns. So basically, you travel the paved roads, or don't travel. 

 As I mentioned in Part 1, I had a vision about blackberries. These are those blackberries. 

I sat in the living room in our new apartment with my knee elevated, trying to ignore the boxes and piles of random crap that needed unpacked. With no internet or television to distract me, I opened my notebook and started writing. Almost immediately, I hit a wall in the story that required a more firm understanding of the setting. Something told me the current blackberry situation wasn't going to cut it. 

With a sigh, I said "Dad, what does this Olympia look like?" I started to imagine a tropical climate (I've been learning about climate change). Not only have the pines been replaced with palms, a natural enemy to blackberries has been introduced. The tropical plants, both natural and hybrid nano-bot beasts, grow in such abundance the blackberries are almost completely choked out. 

Almost. They did find a means of survival. 

The asphalt used to pave our roads has rendered the soil beneath toxic. None of the new tropical plants can grow where asphalt was laid. So, where we now have roads, there are rivers of painful and lethal blackberries. 

Suddenly I realized there are no roads in my story. Likely, no one in my story even knows what roads are. They're creating new roads out of necessity, and don't even realize it. 

I started writing again with vigor. It wasn't until a few days later, when I wrote Part 1, that I realized God had given me this vision. Here I was, thinking I tapped into my own vast imagination. If you'll remember with me, though, I asked Dad a question. He's faithful about answering questions. 

Cool. SO. Not only did this imagery give me context for my story, it also gave me context for the shift me and my fellows are experiencing. 

We're stepping into a new climate, and engaging relationally with Dad in ways that we haven't been taught. The roads that got us here won't get us much further. We're going to need to not only take new roads, but take paths that won't exist until we travel them. 

There's a story in acts 10. A friend I call Wee Todd brought this story to my attention while praying with a group of awesome folks at an explosive Memorial Day BBQ (which I'll need to tell you about in the next post.) I'd never heard this story, but Dad flipped my Bible open to it a few days ago (another story I'll need to tell you about). 

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)

#AriseAndBringTheHeavensDown

I have a feeling those of you who joined us to pray and hope after reading the last post might be curious how my friends' trip turned out. Here's part of the story. God was at work before they even left their house that day. Before you get to the end, I should warn you: I haven't heard the next part of the story. It is possible it may not be told here. But it was such a mischievous ending, I couldn't part with it! 

Part 2: Hope and Healing

Winter glanced around her, over either shoulder; the gate she'd been waiting at was deserted. She was the only one here. Immediately, she stood and found the flight directory. Her gate had been changed. She ran, got in line, and breathlessly gave the stewardess her pass. Most of the plane had boarded already, her number had been called long ago. 

LAX Internation Airport

She took her seat, relieved to have made it in time. "We're running late folks," the pilot's voice crackled over the intercom. "We'll take off as soon as your seated and have you at LAX as close to on schedule as possible." 

That's awesome, Winter thought. Esa's plane was probably already there, he'd be waiting. 

Five minutes later, the pilot's voice projected overhead again. This time, his tone flat and hardly masking frustration. "I apologize for the delay, folks. Looks like we have to de-ice."

The woman next to winter began to rant about being on a tight schedule and needing to be at her destination on time. Winter turned to face her. "Have you ever known you were supposed to be somewhere, known that incalculable good would come of it, and that something was trying to stop you?" 

"Sure, I guess."

"I am on my way to an event that I had a vision of two years ago. Two months ago, I finally got an address. Today I have no money, no phone, no clothes, but I've got this plane ticket there. And I believe that has something to do with why we have to sit here and de-ice in Oakland in April. Are you a woman of faith?"

"No."

"Well, I'm going to this event for a miracle. Will you hope for something with me at 8 p.m. tonight?"

"Like what?"

"Anything you want."

"You want to hope for something?" Suddenly the woman came to life. "Hope for water. I'm from Colorado and we don't have any water. Our farmers can't even water their crops enough to get through this harvest. They have no idea what to do. 

"And while we're at it, North Korea! Someone needs to get that man from North Korea in a room and have a good talk with him." Suddenly the woman's demeanor switched. No longer lively, she became cold. Winter smiled, passed her some peanuts, and they didn't speak again the duration of the flight.