miraculous – Jerry Lout ⚬ Writer ⚬ Speaker ⚬ Mobilizer

Catastrophic grief, as many will testify, can paralyze. A numbness washing through one’s mind and body like the slow rise of an ocean’s tide. This may actually serve as a merciful buffer, sparing the person (for a time at least) an utter crushing of the soul.

When trauma with its disorienting shock floods in some find afresh that nothing substitutes for the gentle, anchoring calm of a close friend nearby.

When Henry drew his last breath at the traffic intersection, his precious Joyce was thrust into an upside down world of loss. From a mercy that heaven alone might supply, Joyce’s sense of desolation in this foreign country began easing. Juni, her American friend and fellow student, came to her aid.

What followed across the coming months and even into years ahead may be characterized as miraculous.

To the obvious question clamoring for answers, “How can good of any kind emerge out of such an evil-conceived nightmare?”, an other-worldly response would gradually emerge.

For those not having savored the tangible lovingkindness of God – whose sacrificial offering invokes levels of empathy defying description – simple language falls short.

Through Juni’s frequent presence and unimposing availability (shored up by a cadre of interceding teammates) the Spirit of comfort gained access to a traumatized, grief-stricken soul.

The precious scholar’s journey forward was marked by modest advances over long periods of time. One big setback involved a major crash when the car in which she was riding was rear-ended by a speeding motorist. This resulted in an extended hospital stay. Juni and friends, once again at her side.

Joyce found herself drawing upon the invisible strengths supplied from above through her forever sisters. She welcomed Christ himself into her life and into her story. He in turn granted, as scripture pledges, a treasured exchange. Beauty for ashes. The oil of joy for mourning (and even), the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness.*

Jesus – man of sorrows, acquainted with grief.*

“I am sorry, but your son will not walk again.”

My mom, seated in the Tulsa hospital’s polio ward, listened as the doctor offered his prognosis. Her heart sank.

It might be argued the physician’s assessment in the moment was made prematurely. Regardless, news like this coming to the parent of a paralyzed nine-year-old lying in a Hillcrest bed down the hall could not be received without emotion.

Our family was blessed to have friends. Common, blue-collar-status households marked, for the most part, the culture of our modest faith community. Upon receiving the latest troubling news of my ongoing decline, the little band of churchgoers rallied their hearts. They reset their resolve. As an earlier body of believers of ancient times had been challenged to do, they continued in prayer.*

Having been carried by Dad into the hospital weeks earlier – my legs and feet unresponsive to my very best efforts at even wiggling a toe – I was often reminded I was never forgotten by our faithful praying family.

My condition worsened still. Discussions were convened of bringing in a piece of equipment bearing a foreboding kind of name – the Iron Lung. A backup measure for my increasingly compromised respiratory system.

The actions of the small prayer band seemed a little counterintuitive. They simply kept on with their appeals. Kind people paid a visit resting kind hands* on my frail form.

It remains for me a big mystery as to why I got counted among some of the fortunate ones over time to encounter the miraculous firsthand. Looking back I recall with some wonder the astonishing shift in my condition. My terribly weakened body responding to the Lord’s gracious, powerful hand. The little company of his blue-collar intercessors had kept their petitions going. If biblical praying is anything it is love acted upon audaciously.

Some four weeks after the iron lung deliberation the hospital’s exit doors opened. I was standing upright, walking with only the support of a couple crutches which would soon get discarded. Both my body and spirit responded happily to the crisp air outside.

A doubtful questioner once offered, “I believe that, instead of God answering prayer, the matter is merely coincidental. You pray. A coincidence occurs and you claim that some prayer was answered.”

The prayer practitioner offered a kind response, “Maybe you are right. Yet, what I have found is this. The more we pray – the more the coincidences happen”.

This is the way of apprentices to Jesus. They engage. Routinely – in humble trusting faith – they converse with him.

Tag: miraculous

Treasured Exchange

Assertive Action