fbpx

See yourself as a miracle

When I was 8 or 9, my newborn sister went into the hospital. I don’t remember the details. I don’t remember ever visiting her there. I don’t even remember what was diagnosed. What I do remember is seeing my mother cry for the first time. She and my father stood in a corner of the living room — her shoulders hunched over as she shed close-to silent tears; his arms around her — trying to console. And I vaguely remember one of them telling me that Lorri was sick.

I can imagine they would have done anything remotely possible to have her back. I can imagine that their desperation would have driven them to cling to the smallest of options. And I am certain that they prayed — asking for her healing, longing for a miracle.

There’s an ancient story told of a father and his daughter. She was only 12 years old and dying. Desperate, the father went in search of a healer he’d heard rumor of, then begged him to come back to his home and heal his girl. As they set out together, messengers arrived saying, “Don’t bother the teacher any longer; she has already died.” The healer paid no attention, saying, “Don’t be afraid, only believe.”

When they arrived at the man’s home, there was nothing but confusion and wailing. Again the healer spoke: “The child is not dead — she is only sleeping.” When people started making fun of him, jeering at what he’d said, he sent them all away and went into her room — along with three of his disciples and her mother and father. He took her by the hand and said, ““Little girl, get up!” She got up at once and started walking around.

I imagine her skipping out of her room and into the crowd of people, all smiles, oblivious to both their shock and overwhelming joy. She probably asked for a snack and then wanted to go play with her friends. Just like that — all was as it should be.

She was a living, breathing miracle. From the age of 12 and for the rest of her life, this would have been her identity — the way in which she was known by others, the way in which her parents would have seen her, what would have been whispered about her as she walked down the street, grew, lived her life. In some ways, we might guess this was a burden to bear: others expect too much of you; an average life will not suffice.

What if she had a different perspective? What if being a miracle was what opened her up to a life of possibility and joy and expanse? And what if that’s exactly what she offers you today?

*****

Yes, you.

Imagine it. Dream big. Dig deep. Ask yourself: If I believed I was a miracle, I would…

Every answer that shows up is your wisdom speaking; your desire, your heart, your longing, your truth. And you can trust it. Because you are a miracle. Now…to believeing it and being it!

May it be so.

What a Healed Woman Sounds Like

Once upon a time there was a woman who had suffered for twelve years with constant bleeding. She had been treated by many a doctor, spending everything she had to pay them over the years, but never getting better. In fact, she had gotten worse. And so when she heard about the Healer, she knew she had to hope just one more time. She found him in the crowd, came up behind him, and touched his robe. For she thought to herself, “If I can just touch his robe, I will be healed.” Immediately her bleeding stopped, and she could feel that she had been healed of her terrible condition. Immediately the Healer realized that power had gone out from him, so he turned around in the crowd and asked, “Who touched my robe?” His disciples said to him, “Look at this crowd pressing around you. How can you ask, ‘Who touched me?’” But he kept on looking around to see who had done it. Then the frightened woman, trembling at the realization of what had happened to her, came and fell to her knees in front of him and told him what she had done. And he said to her, “Daughter, your faith has made you well. Go in peace. Your suffering is over.” (Mark 5:25-34)

The voice of a healed woman sounds a little something like this:

“You live so much of your life at varying levels of weakness. Not quite yourself. Not quite up to par. Not quite 100%. Not quite all-in. Making matters worse, you feel just on the outside, just on the edge, just on the margins. And you wait for someone else to invite you in. The invitation is yours to both extend and accept.

“You are the one who can offer yourself healing. You are the one who can offer yourself worth. You are the one who can move from not quite and just about to completely whole and all in.

“Push your way to the healing you long for. Do not listen to the crowd, the cacophony, the voices within and without. Do not pay attention to those who shame you, who will not look you in the eye, whose feet are more familiar than faces as you’ve been bent in pain, hindered in movement, not allowed in.

“Keep moving forward, knowing what you know, trusting what you feel, holding fast to your belief that healing awaits you, that wholeness is yours, that just one touch will enable this to be so.

“And when you reach out to grab for what is, by right, yours to have, do not shirk back. Stand and face your healer and healing eye-to-eye. Name what you have done. Acknowledge what you have believed. Stand. Stand. Stand.

“It’s not about the power another has to heal you. It’s about the faith you have to seek the healing you deserve. It’s not about the authority or granting another gives to you. It’s about the sheer determination and will you have to seek it for yourself.

You are the one with the power. You are the one with the will to push through. You are the one with the strength to persevere. You are the one with the touch that heals. You are the one that turns the very heart of the Divine with your plea, your will, your longing, your deserving, your determination, your strength, your desire.

“Yes, your desire. Just like mine. And ours, just like Eve’s. Of course.

“She reached for the fruit – her desire compelling her to trust that something more awaited her, that limits did not serve, that eyes opened were better than those closed. And like her, I did the same – my desire compelling me to trust that something more awaited me, that limits did not serve, that a body healed was better than one broken.

“Now you: reach for what you desire, trust that more awaits you, believe that limits do not serve, open your eyes, let your body lead you, and grab hold of all that will usher you into new worlds, new strength, new realms.

“What crowd of naysayers must you fight your way through to get to all you deserve and desire? What voices do you need to silence to leave the margins, enter the fray, and pursue strength? What limits do you need to surpass to stand tall, strong, healed, and whole? What crowds withhold? What rules bind? What dis-ease sickens? What hemorrhaging weakens? What despair consumes? What faith sustains and compels?

“And this question – the one that matters most: What healing do you desire?

“I already know. Wholeness and strength. The freedom to live, move, and be in expansive, miraculous ways. Causing crowds to part, skies to open, and angels to sing. An expression of sheer, raw faith, your faith in yourself, that causes the Divine Itself to stop in its tracks.

“All of this is already yours.”

May it be so.

Happy 18th Birthday, Emma Joy!

I do not know whether to cry uncontrollably or celebrate wildly, Emma. Perhaps both.

Both…and then some.

Nearly undone at the thought that you are only months away from leaving my home and beginning to craft your own; that you are leaving the predictability of (and frustrations inherent within) the public school system and diving into the newness and expansiveness of college; that from this point forward you will be gone more than = you will be here; that I am a place/person to which you will return from time-to- time, but with whom you no longer “stay. So incredibly grateful that every bit of this is true.

I can hardly wait for you to rely on an ever strengthening identity apart from mine. I can hardly wait to hang your senior picture on my wall. I can hardly wait to see you don cap and gown – just months away – and = walk across that stage; a graduate. I can hardly wait for you to get to college, finally meet your peers, be engaged by curriculum and content you love, and be challenged in ways you can’t yet begin to imagine. I can hardly wait for you to come back – yes, only for visits – full of stories to tell. I can hardly wait for all that our relationship will yet be when I am less a day-to-day mom, more a here-when-you-call-me source of support and love.

No matter what, whether crying or celebrating, here’s what’s true: you can no more be separated from me than when still in utero. I feel your heartbeat just as I did 18 years ago. I see the signs of your movement and growth just as I did 18 years ago. I imagine your every discovery, your every learning, your every milestone just as I did 18 years ago. And I can hardly hold on to my heart as I look at you – grown, gorgeous, wise, kind, witty, talented, generous, compassionate, and full of love – just as I did the first time I held you, 18 years ago this day.

That day doesn’t feel all that long ago – when they forst put you in my arms; when I wept and wept and wept in joy that you were finally here – whole, safe, strong; when I couldn’t quite believe my good fortune, my luck, my answered prayers that you were mine; when I stared at you for hours upon hours as you slept, pinching myself with the truth of your breath, your presence, your beauty.

This day, I still weep with joy that you are here; that my good fortune, luck, and prayers have been answered more times than I can possibly count; that your breath, your presence, beauty are more stunning and powerful and miraculous than ever before.

But far more now then ever before, I look at you with wonder: for every moment I’ve had the privilege of witnessing: each step you’ve taken, fall you’ve known, heartbreak you’ve lived through, problem you’ve solved, question you’ve asked, tear you’ve shed, song you’ve sung, argument you’ve had, belief you’ve challenged, insecurity you’ve risen above, hope you’ve held to, risk you’ve taken, day you’ve lived.

You are a wonder.

Happy birthday, Emma Joy. May this day (like the one that can’t possibly have been 18 years ago) be yet another birth – no less miraculous or profound – into all the life and life and life that awaits you.