A hard metal chair held my tired, motionless frame. Music played softly while a handful of people made their way to the altar. I sat belligerent in the aging gym, unwilling to respond to the pastor's message and subsequent invitation to know more of God's love. I even argued with God - until a voice spoke and my spirit heard, "Is it not enough if I heal you, Susan?" With tears in my eyes, I stood and walked to the front.
It wasn't that I didn't want to know more of God's love. The pastor's words had pierced my heart. but six weeks before, doctors had given my husband, Jason, two or three years to live, at most; a brain-stem tumor was slowly taking his life. Unless God did some fancy finger painting in his brain, the unwanted intrusion would leave me alone with two young boys. I'd come to the service expecting a miracle - Jason's miracle. But God had other plans.
I made my way to the front of the gym and found two friends. They arranged three chairs in a circle where I shared my fears, hurt, and worries. They, in turn, prayed. After many prayers and tears, a distinct peace settled me. I looked up and simply said, "I can go on now. I can face another day." In a moment's time a fresh sense of God's love had filled me and changed my world.
I woke the following morning amazed at the difference and wondered if the feeling would subside. but as days continued, songs spilled forth instead. During the next three weeks, I wrote 13 songs. I'd always struggled to write thank-you notes, let alone a song. Now each composition served as a tangible touch of God's healing.
The following month Jason started chemotherapy. I kept singing and writing. He often joined in and the peace kept growing. Every day I had a choice. I could cave to fear, or I could cultivate the new sense of God's love. So when white blood counts dropped, or coordinating doctor's appointments proved challenging, or a new symptom showed itself, indicating the worst, I simply closed my eyes and stated over and over, "I love you Lord, and you love me." Those words took me to a place of worship, the very place, I would learn, where God meets His people.
I kept writing songs, but within two years, Jason's speech had slurred. His hands shook. He lost partial hearing and went almost blind in one eye. Eventually, balance difficulties kept him clinging to walls (or someone's shoulder) when he walked. Still we sang and worshipped and clung to God's promise of healing.
In need of a respite one day during that challenging time, I lay down on the floor of my boys' bedroom while they napped. Eyes closed, my thoughts drifted to images of heaven recorded in Revelation 4: "In the middle and around the throne were four living creatures covered with eyes in front and in back... Day and night they never stop, saying: 'Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God, the Almighty, who was, who is, and who is coming'" (Rev. 4:6, 8).
I repeated the last phrase until the Scripture sprang to life. For a moment, as I lay stretched out on the floor, I felt transported to the throne room itself. I saw throngs of people joining with the creatures, singing with abandon, while others roamed outside the structure free from worry, care, or any negative thought. Vivid colors detailed the radiance that emanated from the throne. And I realized two things. First there's always abandoned worship taking place in heaven. And second, we can join that celebration at any time through our worship.
In the far distance the earth sank into blackness, clouded by sin, sickness, and death. But I had the distinct impression that those walking free in heaven remembered nothing of the pain on earth. The radiance barred their former darkness.
But those on earth still battled.
Two months later, we woke at 5:00 am on our youngest son's third birthday. the boys were at my sister's and party plans were postponed. Across town, doctors awaited our arrival. the inoperable tumor had spread and a neuro-oncologist encouraged us to let a surgeon biopsy it. Due to the growths location, however, the specialist opted not to perform a simple, stereo tactic biopsy. My husband was scheduled for brain surgery instead.
Jason lay quiet on our bed while I dressed. At one point, he simply asked, "Why?" I had no answers. by the time we reached the highway, I was sobbing. Helpless and scared, I knew to fight; I knew I could join with heaven. So I began to sing. I cried and sang my way to that hospital. Jason even joined in with garbled tones.
Our desperate singing sounded more like muddled noise. But by the time we reached our destination, the peace that passes understanding calmed my fear and held me through the day.
Ten days later, with everyone back home, we celebrated Sam's third birthday. After another ten days, a memorial service celebrated Jason's promotion to glory. He was free - free from sickness and pain, free to dance with joy.
And I was left to worship.
Since then, I've shed many tears, asked many questions and at times have been just plain tired. But God always meets me in worship. He inhabits the praises of His people. His presence empowers, comforts, and heals. So I keep singing. And when I sing, I feel His glory. And that glory changes me.
I never dreamed the healing I received that night in the gym would superseded a physical healing in my husband's body. That was never my plan. But I know that is asked again, I can truly answer, "Yes Lord, it's enough if you heal me."
Schreer, Susan. "Empowered Through Praise." Let's Worship. Spring 2006: 6-7.