letting him in

Jan 18, 2018

There is really no way to put the feelings and experiences of the past ten days into words, but I want to remember this time, so I am going to try.

Monday, January 8, was the five-year anniversary of the first time I passed out and had a seizure. I think because of the way my brain catalogs dates of all kinds, anniversaries of hard days are often hard for me.

This one was a doozy. I started bawling in the morning and didn’t stop for about 36 hours. January 8, 2013 played out in my mind over and over again. I saw myself collapsing to the floor, shaking, trying to find my head that was floating far away from my body, and saying all sorts of nonsensical gibberish. As the day wore on, grief filled my soul. I could not stop thinking about how hard the past five years of passing out and seizing have been, the pain and suffering of the injuries, the lost abilities, and the seemingly never ending heart rate issues. Then I thought about my children and all the things they have missed out on by having a fragile, broken mother who is unable to run and play with them.

Then the guilt came. I started thinking about the burden I am to so many people. Pictures came into my mind of the many meals, events, and outings which have been interrupted by my body’s needs. I thought of the money, time, and effort that have been given to me again and again and was overcome with guilt that so many people have given so much to not only help me get my life back, but to also just get me through each day.

Oh my, it was rough.

On Monday, during the crying-fest, a friend called and said we should go to Mexico to get the mesenchymal cells that are far stronger than the animal stem cells I have been receiving. I wanted them so badly, so intensely, but the guilt took over and I started telling God, “No way, this is too much. My life is not worth this much money.” All sorts of emotions were swirling inside of me – guilt at the possibility of getting them, fear that they wouldn’t help, overwhelming grief – and I could not process it all. I could feel the possibility of a big miracle, but I was terrified to actually believe it or to even let myself hope for it. All I could do was cry.

On Tuesday evening, Tami called and after talking for a long time, I finally let out a chuckle. That was the beginning of coming back to myself. Then Kami kidnapped me and took me to The Greatest Showman which did my heart a world of good and reminded me that dreams and hopes and love are worth fighting for.

By Thursday, I was feeling much better, but still fairly ambivalent about accepting the opportunity to go and get the mesenchymal cells. God showed up in big ways again and sent my friend, Karami, with a message. She told me God was working on my heart and to let Him do his work without judgment, without fear, but instead, to let Him in and to be gentle with myself while He is working. I shared some of my feelings about the mesenchymal cells and she said “Trace, I think you have gotten comfortable with THIS level of a miracle, but God has TTTTTTHHHHHHHHHIIIIIIIIISSSSSSSSS big of a miracle for you.”

Those words opened my heart to a flood of ideas. For the next several days I pondered them and I realized I was telling God, “it’s too much.” I had to dig deep and really think about my beliefs about miracles and healing and God’s hand in my life. How could I say I would accept all of the atonement of Jesus Christ, that I believed I could be forgiven of my sins, cleansed every whit, comforted, redeemed, and claimed by the God of heaven and earth, and yet not be willing to take in the possibility of miraculous healing?

More tears. More digging in the scriptures. More pondering.

I left for Mexico on Monday. I received my normal stem cell treatments on Tuesday in my back and hips. Afterwards, we went to The Greatest Showman where I was given messages of hope again and then the temple where we did initiatory work for my ancestors and shared beautiful, sacred moments with those on both sides of the veil. Each experience opened me up a little more to the work God is doing in my life. I cannot explain it, but I felt like a chisel was tapping at my soul, opening me up to His purposes one tap at a time.

On Wednesday, as I laid waiting for the mesenchymal cells, I poured out my heart to God. I told him that I was finally open to whatever healing He has for me, big or small, I was ready. As I opened my arms wide and told Him I was ready to submit fully, tears flowed out of me again. After the IV started, I opened my Daring to Hope book and right there in front of me was exactly the message I needed to hear at that moment.

Katie Davis Majors is referring the woman with the issue of blood…and to each of us.

I resonate deeply with this woman. I can see her pushing through the crowd, reaching out for Jesus’ hem. I can feel the strain, that desperate reaching, longing to touch Him, just even the very edge of His robe. A longing for only Him. I imagine her inner pleading after tying so long to be healed: Please, please.

And I am like the woman with the issue of blood, except I am the woman with the issue of doubt. I am the woman with the issue of sin, with the issue of flesh, with the issue of forgetfulness. I am the woman who wants to snap my arms shut and protect, fold my arms tight around my chest to guard my heart, which is still so raw and exposed, protect if from being broken yet again. I want to gather my children to myself and shelter them from the ugly hurt of this world. My mind wanders too quickly from He can To I can’t, and my focus turns to earthly struggles before it rests in my Heavenly Father.

Hope is the great expectancy of this woman that Jesus will help her. Hope is our great expectancy that we will know HIm in all our circumstances, even the seemingly hopeless ones. Hope is this mocked-by-the-world, nonsensical reaching through the crowd just to touch Him. To the cynical, it seems like a waste. Why reach in such a crowd? Everyone is touching Him. You’re wasting your time. What if nothing happens? We risk great embarrassment to hope in this way, don’t we? But the reaching shows something about the woman’s heart, something about my heart: a faith undeterred by the world or our circumstances, a faith that believes in what we cannot see. My expectancy grows my heart toward God, grows room in my heart for more of Him, and allows me to see Him here, wherever here is.

Sure, daring to hope feels a little too much like playing with fire, especially when we have been burned before. To hope exposes me, just like the bleeding woman. It lays me bare and vulnerable because I can’t fix this and can’t control the outcome. My hope puts me right up next to Jesus, torn open and defenseless, completely at His mercy, completely surrendered.

Oh. My. Goodness. The tears poured out of me. The cells dripped in. My soul opened up to God and I begged Him to come in deeper, to pour His power and light and mercy and miracles into every one of the 21 million stem cells entering my body and every fiber of my being.

Holiness.

His holiness filled the room and wrapped me up and there are no words to describe it.

I do not know what healing these cells will bring, what healing God has in store for me, but I do know, emphatically, He is with me. I am in His hands and He is taking care of me in beautiful, soul-filling ways.

May I always remember.

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