From A Silent God to Answered Prayers

The most recent time I cheated death was in 2020. When my body betrayed me at age 34, I thought God would heal me overnight. He had already done that once before when I was 25. I expected that God would show up in the same way and that a prayer would do the trick as it once had.

But this time God chose not to heal me overnight. I thought He had abandoned me and wondered why I was no longer worth saving.

I’d felt unwell during pregnancy, but really declined after having Cub. Six months after giving birth, my tears from birthing hadn’t healed. I was regularly losing my balance and falling down. One day I tried to take Cub out to the garden for fresh air and collapsed, thankfully keeping him safe by doing a tuck and roll so that he didn’t experience any impact. 

My back was bruising each day from laying down on my own bed. My skin felt like it was on fire and peeled off various parts of my body, most obviously my fingertips, leaving sore red nubs.

I’d like to say I remained cool under pressure, but I panicked. 

God, I have a baby to take care of. What are you doing? My son needs me. I can’t bear the idea of not being able to give him what he needs.

I perseverated on this thought, this fear of my son being left motherless. My own mind was relentless.

I longed to go to church, but all churches were shut down because of COVID. We’d moved from another state 5 weeks after Cub’s birth and hadn’t yet made any friends. 

I experienced spiritual warfare that felt like being torn apart by wolves. I prayed, I cried, and I saw demons that delighted in what they thought would be my destruction.

I begged God to talk to me. I begged my husband to pray over me. I begged friends and mentors for guidance. I begged and begged and begged. 

What am I supposed to do, God? Why aren’t you telling me what to do? 

I thought the fact that God wasn’t talking to me and didn’t choose to give me instant healing meant he didn’t love me. I was haunted by Jesus saying, “Oh Father, why have you forsaken me?” on the cross and thought about it obsessively.

I prayed into the dark, without ceasing, but half believed I was casting my prayers into a void. The only thing I thought God said during that time was this: “You’re already healed.” But that didn’t make sense to me. I wasn’t regaining any strength. Why don’t I feel better if I’m healed? You’re telling me I’m healed with no physical reassurance.

Then, it occurred to me that I kept praying in the same way, assuming God would respond in the same way. I surrendered the narrative I wanted of another instant healing. I brainstormed what to do differently.

Ok, God, I’m not feeling like I’ve been instantly healed. Could you speak to me another way? I’m so lonely. Could you send me a sign by sending me someone who went through something similar?

The next week we found a church that had reopened, the first in the area. I met a woman whose story is not mine to tell, but who was God’s response to that prayer. “Could we pray together?” I asked her.

“Of course. What’s going on?”

I started the story of my physical decline. 

“Oh, I know why you’re here,” she answered. At her words, I knew God had arranged our meeting and felt a sprout of hope. 

This woman had been diagnosed with an autoimmune condition that was so rare there were few doctors to treat it. She had recovered against the odds and recovered her health in an incredible way. (Rockstar status, but I don’t want to divulge too much of her story because it’s not mine).

I prayed again. The similarities between her story and mine were striking, but she didn’t have the exact same condition. I needed to know that someone could recover from what I had, the same exact thing.

I joined an online support group dedicated to the specific condition (online because this was during COVID shutdown and there were no in-person groups yet), and said I wanted to hear from someone who’d beat the odds. 

Women who had been living in wheelchairs and dealing with medical atrocities (atrocities I won’t include here because reading about them could be traumatic) laughed at me. They told me I was living a fantasy and that I would never recover. “I thought the same thing, and you’re wasting your time. It’s better to accept this life,” said one woman. Others were quick to agree.

Hmm. I looked at this woman, so sure of her own sad future. Ok, that’s her right. But to be so sure of my future? Last I checked, only God knows that. This woman wore all black and had taken “smoky eye” to a whole new level. Her makeup was so heavy and dark that I couldn’t help but think that it must be a metaphor for the state of her soul. 

While still spiritually confused, I knew to rebuke this woman’s words. In my mind, I told her to f*** off. I love to be on good terms with most people, but I knew that that discouragement is not from the Father. Maybe if you didn’t shroud yourself in makeup, you’d have a shot at healing. When Jesus asks me to pick up my mat and walk, I’m walking. Stay in your wheelchair. That’s not my story.

I left the group because there’s nothing supportive about someone telling you you’re destined to the same sad fate as them.

Later that day, a different woman from the support group contacted me. She sent me a message that said:

“I saw what you asked the group and wanted to talk because I have reversed the disease. I used to be obese and water-only fasted twice a week. It took five years, but I am HEALED. I tried to share my story with the group, but the group moderators shut me down. They said the medical documentation declared that there is no cure and they didn’t want me to give false hope to others. Do you want to talk on the phone?”

 We exchanged phone numbers and talked on the phone for the next few weeks.

Like me, this woman had the exact same condition. Like me, she was at the same crisis of severity, in constant pain. Like I wanted- no, like I NEEDED- to believe, she had made a full recovery.

We talked about supplements and how exactly she had managed her water-only fasting and we talked about God. “I feel like God led me to finding my way to heal,” she said. 

“And God led me to you,” I answered. “Or God led you to me.”

He brought us together because we’re destined to heal. 

We talked periodically, and even though we’ve never met in person, I will consider her a friend forever.  We both believed that, with God, all things are possible. She was already living it. I started to believe that I too would live it after we talked. It took 1.5 years, but I too, made a full recovery.

False hope?

I’m here to tell you that hope is never false.

Click here to read about the first time I cheated death at age 25.

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