Hearing Business

I was walking Somewhere last Tuesday morning, headed to my coffee bungalow for something warm. While I walked, I started thinking about having a conversation with Jesus about finances..

This is a tendency I'm recently becoming aware of: I imagine what I'd say if I were praying into something, rather than just saying it.

My dog, Somewhere, chilling at my coffee bungalow.

I used to do the same thing as a kid. My cousins and I would be playing "Dogs," a game in which we'd romp around on all fours and, well, pretend we were dogs. We'd bark, lick water out of bowls, the whole nine yards. But I couldn't just pretend. I had to narrate what I was pretending, so we were all on the same page. "Let's pretend I'm burying a bone here under the couch, and you have to try and steal it..." or "Pretend I'm barking to tell you there's someone sneaking into our hideout." Things like that.

Finally, my older cousin became exasperated. "You don't have to say 'pretend that...' before you pretend something. Just freakin' do it. That's how you pretend."

I thought I'd figured the concept out by now. But I keep catching myself essentially saying "pretend that you're praying about finances (or healing, or people, or nations)" instead of just freakin' doing it.

I caught myself in pretend prayer mode on this walk. I rolled my eyes and, in an effort to drive home the "just do it" lesson, I began speaking to Jesus out loud. I said things like "Jesus, my throne is yours. You are my king," trying to make sure I was fully transitioned out of pretend prayer.

As though I was with a coach watching game footage to prepare a strategy, Jesus and I reflected on my pretend prayer from a moment ago. I was stressing about money, but didn't want to be. A strategy drifted into my heart: Stop asking, start declaring. 

Still aloud, I began making declarations. Precise words, I don't recall. But things along the lines of: I worship Jesus, my King, and he alone. I do not worship money. Money is not my debtor.

One statement I do specifically remember: "Jeremiah and I will not be prevented from pursuing our purpose by money. Funds will not hinder us, will not close any doors."

I don't think I've made myself clear yet, but this post is an effort to address two topics: 1) How do I hear God's voice? 2) What is God saying about finances?

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 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.