Do You Want to Be Well?

On January 14, 2022, my hope-brimmed prayers wilted into silent sobs as I cried out to God. Why this, Lord? Why now?

I’d woken up with pain in my lower lumbar so excruciating that I couldn’t walk . . . at all.

For five days, the doctors treated me and adjusted my medication so I could manage my pain when I returned home. I shared about that life-twist-and-pit-stop in “I’ve Had Enough, Lord!” (God Hears Her blog, April 15, 2022).

Over the years, as my back issues worsened and my limitations increased, close friends and family had encouraged me to apply for disability benefits. I don’t know if it was more fear or pride, maybe a mix of both, but I struggled with the label more than the loss of my independence and my declining mobility.

Even though I suffered with debilitating chronic pain and fatigue daily, I did not see myself as a disabled person. Even though I invested in a professionally trained service dog to help with my limited mobility and pain management, I didn’t want others to see me as a disabled person. Even though I used my gifts to increase awareness and become an advocate for people with disabilities, I refused to accept that I was a disabled person.

Before my hospital stay, to cope, I’d rationalized my condition. I reminded myself that others were worse off than me, so I couldn’t be disabled. I reasoned that I didn’t look sick, that I could still do some things, that I was able to serve the Lord through writing and speaking.

So . . . I could not be disabled.

But on January 14th, when the hospital nurses had to use a special machine to help me get to the bathroom, I looked up the word I feared would snap the last fraying thread of my hope for complete healing on this side of eternity.

Disabled describes a person who is “physically or mentally impaired, injured, or incapacitated” (Dictionary.com).

Later that day, I told my husband, “I am disabled.”

He didn’t act as surprised as I had hoped he would.

That night, alone in the dark room, I sobbed silently and prayed as I processed what my confession really meant.

The next morning, a new nurse came into my room. She encouraged me with small talk as she took my vitals, checked my pain levels, and administered my meds.

I grinned as I noticed her rubbing her round belly and asked, “How far along are you?”

She patted her baby-ball and said, “I’m going on maternity leave at the end of this week. You’re one of my last patients. I want you to get strong so we can both get out of here.”

I chuckled. “Thanks for taking care of me,” I said. “I’ll pray for you.”

As soon as the words tumbled over my lips, I teared up. So did she.

“I need prayer,” she said as she checked my IV and adjusted my bed. She handed me a cup with my oral medication. “I’ll be back to check on you soon. You rest, okay?”

I nodded.

Later, I asked my husband to bring copies of my devotional, my children’s picture book, and the Our Daily Bread compilation, God Hears Her.

For the rest of my hospital stay, I thanked the staff by handing out free books and praying for them. God blessed me with the opportunity to pray with two nurses who were grieving. One had lost a baby due to miscarriage. One had just received a cancer diagnosis and was beginning treatment that week.

I held their hands as I asked for God’s healing protection and provision with confidence that He could and would carry them through the upcoming days filled with so many unknowns. As I proclaimed this truth while praying for them out loud, I asked God to help me remember His promises applied to me too.

Every time God gave me an opportunity to encourage one of the hospital staff members, He affirmed that my disability did not impact my identity as a child of God. No matter how many limitations I endured, I would always be a disciple called and empowered to fulfill the Great Commission and the Greatest Commandment wherever He placed me.

I left the hospital using a back brace and a walker, along with a pain management regimen and a treatment plan that I’m still implementing. Though my experiences on the mission field in that hospital room had refreshed my spirit, the hard days I experienced over the next seven months picked at my resolve.

When pain caused me to focus on all God wasn’t doing, I lost sight of all the wonderful things God was doing.

I’m still occasionally wearing a back brace and using a walker. I still can’t walk more than a block and have high level pain when I stand or sit for too long. I still can’t drive. And I still have days that discourage and frustrate me as I lay flat on my back for hours.

But whenever God gives me an opportunity to serve Him, from home and while traveling, He empowers me.

On one of my down days, I pulled out my new Message Bible, a translation I’d never read before but wanted to become familiar with.

I prayed, not even trying to hold back the tears, as I read the following story:

A local official asked Jesus to help his dead daughter. “Jesus got up and went with him, his disciples following along” (Matthew 9:18–19, The Message). Just then a woman who had hemorrhaged for twelve years slipped in from behind and lightly touched his robe. She was thinking to herself, ‘If I can just put a finger on His robe, I’ll get well.’ Jesus turned—caught her at it. Then he reassured her: ‘Courage, daughter. You took a risk of faith, and now you’re well,’ The woman was well from then on” (vv. 20–22, The Message).

Jesus was on His way someplace else with the intention of blessing the official’s daughter with a healing miracle. I can’t imagine Jesus telling the man he was out of luck since a random woman came up behind Him and experienced His healing power. Both the official and the bleeding woman “took a risk of faith” and approached Jesus with confidence. And both experienced His mercy.

Taking a risk of faith means to trust God, to rely on Him, to take Him at His Word, to believe Him.

Walking by faith means to step with conviction, breathe prayers with confidence, and submit to God’s plan and pace because we believe He hears us, He sees us, He loves us, and He fulfills all His promises.

But because I wasn’t getting physically better, I asked God to show me what faith looks like when we’re still struggling, still hurting, still sick while we adamantly believe He can heal us?

What does “being well” look like when afflictions are not lifted or deliverance is not experienced?

Over the years, as my health has worsened, I’ve often asked God and myself if I really believed, if I truly took risks of faith and trusted Christ’s healing power.

As I wrestle with this question now, as my pain levels steadily increase, God has shown me how to search deeper into the meaning of wellness in regard to my whole being and with an eternal perspective.

Sure, wellness means to be physically healthy. However, wellness also means “soundness,” which implies stability, reliability, effectiveness, and vigor.

The deeper I dig, the more I realize my wellness effects more than my physical being. I can be well on a deeper level as I place my enduring hope in what Christ has already done and already promised and already set in motion.

Whatever ails us, we can be sure Jesus understands. He knows how much it hurts, how hard it is, how much we wish we would never have to cry out, “Why this? Why now?”

Just like the official and the woman afflicted with hemorrhaging for twelve years, in Matthew 9, we can take a risk of faith and approach Jesus with confidence. We can trust Him with our whole selves, with every aspect of our spiritual, mental, emotional, and physical wellness.

No matter what limitations we grapple with on this side of eternity, we can take Jesus at His Word, which never falters and never returns without accomplishing all He’s intended.

Yes, I am disabled. And yes, I am also of sound mind, body, and soul. With my stability founded on the reliability of Christ, I can serve Him with effectiveness and vigor through the power of the Holy Spirit.

I am well, in the deepest sense of the word, whenever I take a risk of faith and place my trust in Jesus.

Do you want to be well too?

–Written by Xochitl Dixon. Used by permission from the author.