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| Photo by Oleksandr Pidvalnyi from Pexels |
Flying has always been a little nerve-racking to me because, gravity, but I still did it. The last time I flew I was miserable. I had trouble catching my breath; my feet were terribly swollen; I fought a panic attack; I felt terrible. What I did not yet know was that my health would drastically decline over the next few months and I would dive deep into the horrible symptoms of pulmonary hypertension and early, VERY early, heart failure at the young age of 46. After numerous tests and consults with both a pulmonologist and a transplant cardiologist (gulp) I received a shocking diagnosis. The pulmonary hypertension and heart failure were the result of a one-inch hole between the upper chambers of my heart. A congenital heart defect that I knew nothing about until that moment. I was numb and in shock as I tried to absorb the news. What did it mean for my future? Would I live? End up disabled? Would I ever travel again? Or would I die young?
For years I had believed that my future was limited and had told a friend that I did not think I would live to old age. How would my body last that long? Doctors labeled me a depressed, anxious, lazy, asthmatic, overweight woman. I took their labels to heart; I owned them; I believed them, but no matter the prescription for my ailments, I never improved. I finally gave up and let myself go. Then, my diagnosis brought sudden vindication and proved that I wasn't ANY of those ugly labels (except overweight), I was sick! Of course, vindication also brought anger and bitterness at the failures of my parents, who knew about my heart defect but never told me, and countless medical professionals who were too tired, bored, or cynical to listen to my symptoms and figure out my problem. It was a lot for me to process.
I spent hours praying and shed more than a few tears. I was very sick and getting worse by the minute, but had no choice but to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Going to work was almost more than I could bear. Walking from my bedroom to my bathroom was exhausting. Taking a shower left me dizzy and breathless. Blow-drying my hair sent my heart rate close to 200 bpm. The thought of walking through the grocery store brought me to tears. My friends rallied. My church community stepped up in big ways. I begged people to pray over me and they did. And for the first time I was filled with that mysterious peace that passes all understanding, sans wrestling match with the Almighty! If He had decided I could rock an oxygen tank and die younger than I thought I should, then I decided to accept that He knew best. I wasn't even angry or upset, just a little sad and very, very tired.
One night I collapsed into bed and sensed Him telling me to pray for healing. I balked. While I FIRMLY believed that He was completely sovereign and could heal me in an instant, I did not believe that he would. Living in this world had taught me that even those who walk with him closely suffer and die without being physically healed. Why would he heal me? I had many one-sided conversations with the God of the universe. I told Him I did not want to believe because if He did NOT heal me this side of heaven, I did not want to look like a fool. He not so subtly reminded me that I was already a fool. Ouch.
Point taken. God: 1 - Robin: 0. So, recognizing my own foolishness, I decided that it was better to be a fool for Christ than a fool for nothing and did something I had never done before. I let myself believe. And when I could not believe, I would cry out, God, I believe, help my unbelief! And he always did.
Just a few weeks later I was the recipient of my very own medical miracle. The kind that no one can explain with science or logic no matter how hard they try. As with any miracle, it was prayed, hoped, and believed for and required the faith of all my friends because mine was simply too weak. Miracles are powerful. Being the recipient of one was humbling. I was grateful and giddy with relief. I was also full of guilt. So many people had worse outcomes. So many died and left children and spouses. Why was I, a now 47-year-old, single woman with no children or real purpose saved?
Guilt was compounded by my struggle to heal the way the doctors thought I would. They grew impatient with me. I grew impatient with them. I developed an autonomic nervous system disorder and wondered why God would heal one thing only to let me flounder with another. Although still grateful and awed, still willing to tell anyone who would listen, I was also tired, sick, and.......disappointed that the healing was not exactly how I expected it to be. A bit of depression set in, which surprised me. People were so happy for me and what God had done, but I still felt terrible and felt like I would let them down if I was honest about my struggles. It was an odd place to be and I felt like an ungrateful brat. Thankfully, I was able to work through those emotions, but it took a lot of time.
Guilt was compounded by my struggle to heal the way the doctors thought I would. They grew impatient with me. I grew impatient with them. I developed an autonomic nervous system disorder and wondered why God would heal one thing only to let me flounder with another. Although still grateful and awed, still willing to tell anyone who would listen, I was also tired, sick, and.......disappointed that the healing was not exactly how I expected it to be. A bit of depression set in, which surprised me. People were so happy for me and what God had done, but I still felt terrible and felt like I would let them down if I was honest about my struggles. It was an odd place to be and I felt like an ungrateful brat. Thankfully, I was able to work through those emotions, but it took a lot of time.
Eventually life moved on as it is prone to do. I kept putting one foot in front of the other, and before I knew it I had walked away from the miracle. The details grew fuzzy.
I forgot to remember.
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When I booked my flight for my trip to Nashville this month, I was nervous. I knew altitude could affect my condition and the thought of getting worse preoccupied me. Would my heart rate jump? Would I get dizzy? Would I pass out in front of the other passengers? How would my body handle it?
And then I remembered. I remembered that as many flights as I had flown with a GIANT hole in my heart, I had never had a blood clot, suffered a stroke or had a medical emergency. Even on that really, really long 14-hour flight from Poland. I remembered that He had protected me through the take-offs and landings. He had prevented a stroke during a delicate neurosurgery, before I knew about my heart defect. He was with me through the ups and downs of life. Through flood and fire. Through poverty and plenty. Through faith and doubt. Through happy and sad. Through forgetting and remembering. He was always there. Miracles abound when we are willing to see them.
That is why I write; to record the details of what He has done. My memory fails me, but He does not. I never want to walk so far away from the miracles that I forget to remember.
Remember the wonders he has done, his miracles, and the judgments he pronounced.
I Chronicles 16:12
