A tale of two tales, Part 5: Not alone
…for He [God] Himself has said, I will not in any way fail you nor give you up nor leave you without support. [I will] not, [I will] not, [I will] not in any degree leave you helpless nor forsake nor let [you] down (relax My hold on you)! [Assuredly not!] Hebrews 13:5b, AMP
This hope we have as an anchor of the soul, a hope both sure and steadfast and one which enters within the veil, where Jesus has entered… Hebrews 6:19-20a
Tuesday evening, August 5, 2003, the day after by-pass. I sat up in my hospital bed, wires and tubes attached everywhere, and watched the news. Time was blurred, and I was aware of the fact that I had completely lost a day or so, but here I was, done with surgery and ready to mend. And then something on the NBC Nightly News jolted me. “The FBI has issued a warning about bombs being smuggled into the country in briefcases, laptops, and cell phones.”
Last night! I remembered. I woke up last night after by-pass in that dark ICU room with nurses fluttering around me like ministering angels…and I heard from God…and saw what this news report is talking about!
Wee hours of the morning, Tuesday, August 5, ICU. I awoke from the sleep of death with a deep, crushing pain in my chest. I’ve been hit by a truck! I thought, and then remembered—I just had by-pass. And as I lay there, pondering, I became aware of Someone Else who had been crushed. He was crushed for our iniquities; the chastening for our well-being fell upon Him, and by His scourging, we are healed (Isaiah 53:5b). That Scripture became my inward fixation; I pulled as much of that chapter as I could from deep within me, repeating it to myself over and over, like a drowning woman clinging to a rope. And as the nurses ministered, I focused on the One who was crushed for me—and an amazing transaction took place. I became aware of His intense pain that day on Calvary and felt my pain being swallowed up by His. Yes, the pain was there, but I could feel Him bearing it. And the more I mused on His battered body on that cross, bearing my pain, grief for the One who died such a brutal death flooded me. I grabbed the blonde nurse attending me. “Why couldn’t Jesus have gone to this hospital? You guys would have helped Him!”
“O-Kay….” she said. I may have been drugged, but I could tell an “are-you-ever-weird” tone of voice when I heard one. But I didn’t care in the least.
I settled back down and saw a series of three scenes. After each one, I prayed that I would remember it and repeated them all to myself to commit each one to memory. I felt they were significant.
Scene 1: I was in the lobby of a world-class hotel in a big city (I thought it might be New York). I saw a man set a briefcase on a bench under lush plants, leaving it there. “What’s that?” I asked the Lord. “It’s a bomb,” He replied. Less than 24 hours later, I heard about the same thing on NBC.
Scene 2: I was in an empty baseball stadium. I saw three men on the field by the stands who appeared to be from the middle-east. Because they were wearing dark blue baseball caps, I had a feeling we were at Dodger stadium in LA. I asked the Lord, “Who are these men?” He replied, “They are terrorists.”
Scene 3: I was outside the administration building of my school district. I saw three people confined to wheelchairs. One was the female coordinator of Social Studies and Communication Arts, and the other two were men I didn’t recognize. I asked the Lord, “Why are they in wheelchairs?” He replied, “Because of the work load and the extreme stress they are under, they are being crippled.”
I prayed over each scene and committed to pray even more when I was clearer-headed. Later, in 2008, I ran into the coordinator in Scene 3. I shared with her what I had seen that night. As she repeated the date, August, 2003, a look of recognition and shock came over her face and the color drained out. She identified the men—her fellow coordinators—and remembered the strain and anguish of that season in their careers. “Yes, we were suffocating under the stress in the district; we wondered among ourselves how we would ever make it…you saw that?”
“Yes, and I prayed for you while I was in the ICU. The Lord cares about you three; I guess He just wants you to know how much.”
Sunday, August 3, 2003. At the Sunday night prayer meeting at church, I prayed with others about the time I would be “out” in surgery the next day. My body would be hooked to a machine to circulate my blood and breathe for me while my heart was stopped, but I—the real me—would be out there somewhere. I asked God to do whatever He wanted with me during that “time out” period—whether it was to just rest or to visit with Him or to fight devils—I was ready and available, and I trusted Him for His protection and leading.
Interpersonal attack, summer 2003. After I learned I would be needing by-pass to avoid sudden death, things seemed to ramp up in the spirit against me. I have learned that this is a favorite tactic of the devil to bring despair, defeat, and discouragement right when you need massive doses of faith, hope, and joy. But good news—I’ve also learned that the Lord is faithful to navigate you safely through it all. In a nutshell, this is what I encountered:
- My dad’s fear for my health back-lashed against me in the form of anger and harsh criticism of the way I was approaching surgery and aftercare
- My sister’s plate was already over-filled with the warzone in her own home with an irrationally-explosive, drug-abusing son (who is now doing much better)
- An acquaintance felt the need to warn me that she thought the surgery would make me worse
- A self-proclaimed prophet—a friend of a friend—told me that if I had surgery I would dishonor God by my blatant unbelief—and it would probably cost me my life
- A relationship I’d been in had disintegrated—he moved on and was starting to see other women in my circle; I was beside myself with torment, anger, and hurt
- I learned I had been the subject of false accusations and misrepresentation from outside my current circle
- I became gripped by a deep sense of aloneness in my life
I felt like I was unraveling at the seams. The heaviness of that summer before surgery was beyond any other demonic attack I had ever experienced. As I sat on my living room floor sobbing, I realized that the enemy was targeting me for stealing, killing, and destroying, and that I had to pull out the big guns against him—utter forgiveness of those who had wronged me. I made up my mind—everyone—no matter what their offense—was forgiven. I would hold nothing against them. I couldn’t afford to enter into this life-and-death procedure with even an ounce of unforgiveness in my heart.
Physical attack, summer 2003. In addition to the strange interpersonal assault I was undergoing, I experienced a couple of odd physical attacks, as well—par for the course for the devil. My elderly cat Amos had been cut while being groomed, and in early July, while his stitches were being removed, the tech clipped him and my peaceful old cat chomped down hard on the first thing he could—my thumb. He pierced it clear through with his fangs and immediately my thumb swelled to the size of a Romano tomato. After a tetanus shot and a ten-day dose of horse-pill sized antibiotics, my thumb shrank back to normal and I could proceed with giving blood to be used for any transfusion I might need. (Every drop was needed—and not a drop more.)
Then, the weekend before surgery, I was preparing for my hospital stay when suddenly the power went out. But this was no weather-related outage—something was on fire! I went to the basement and smoke was coming from behind the electric panel. I called 911, horrified at the big scene that soon landed in front of my house with trucks, lights, sirens and a parade of firemen traipsing downstairs—but the fire was quenched.
Early June, 2003. The harsh reality of what was ahead of me enshrouded me. I sat at my kitchen table, dropped my head, and prayed, “God, I have no husband. Would You be my Husband and find me a good doctor?” He did. I discovered later that the cardiac surgeon I used was ranked second best in the world for cardiac anomalies, the best coming from Japan. A Saudi prince had even flown here to go under the knife of this highly-specialized surgeon.
Late May, 2003. My allergy/anti-anxiety pill prescribing doctor was humoring me. He sent me down to have a stress test, flippantly announcing they would find nothing—but if, in the slim chance they did, I would then undergo an angiogram. I had a feeling I’d be having that procedure.
My sister was swamped at work; my dad lived four hours away; my best friend had a full work load; no one was free to wait with me as I prepared for the agonizingly unknown. Heaviness draped over me like a dull, leaden blanket. I was alone.
The techs attached wires to key points on my body, prepping me for the stress test. A nurse explained the procedure and then abruptly stopped. “Dor? Frick?” She peered into my face. Only high school, camp, and college friends called me that.
I looked at her and she said, “Dor! It’s me! Susie!”
And there she was, standing beside me, straight and strong, smiling and fussing over me with medical professionalism and the connected-depth of shared, conquered trauma.
As I started the test, she told me that she had become fascinated with nursing while in the hospital with her broken back; she married her camp sweetheart; they had kids; and they attended church.
Not too long into the procedure, it became clear that my heart was not functioning properly. She stopped me, got me prepped for cardiac cath, and as we waited, the girl who once-upon-a-time thought she didn’t need God held my hand and prayed for me. The girl who long ago vomited into my hands ministered life and help to me. The girl with whom I once waited at the foot of her cliff now waited with me at the foot of my own cliff.
And God had not left me alone.
Read MoreA tale of two tales, Part 4: Is it unknown or scary? God can turn it
And so tale one closed with Susie knowing the essential fact that she needed God. Tale two culminated twenty-seven years later, in 2003. I will be breaking tale two into two parts: the physical part first, and the spiritual, emotional warfare waged against me in the second part. And throughout that entire season of my life—at first very unknown and very scary—God was working it all together for my good, both in the physical aspect and in the spiritual realm.
Way before 2003 when I was 48, I had a sense that something wasn’t right with my heart. It started in my early thirties. I remember teaching away, in my last class of fourth graders, when wham! I was hit in the chest with gripping pains. I’d hold onto my desk as I stood in front of the kids, quietly praying and trusting God for help. Then as quickly as it would start, it stopped.
Several times over the next ten to fifteen years the same thing would randomly happen. Finally, in my mid-forties, I’d had enough. I went to the doctor.
After a history of my family and health—no heart problems on either side of the family, I didn’t smoke or drink, I was underweight (at the time!), and I was the picture of health—the doctor prescribed allergy meds. No heart check. Just pills.
Well, those pills did help; my eyes weren’t as itchy as they had been, but chest pain still randomly struck.
I returned to the doc again. This time he prescribed anti-anxiety medication. I was secretly outraged, but I didn’t know how to “fight city hall”. Believe me, I’m learning to advocate for myself.
I had a very active lifestyle, but in my early forties, I noticed I was losing steam. It got more intense; I was exhausted with little exertion, but since the chest pains were so infrequent, I thought I was just out of shape. I would try to keep up and did to a point, but would experience long seasons of utter fatigue.
But the whole time, I had that niggling thought in the back of my mind: Get your heart checked.
God is so good! He knows how to take all the garbage the devil throws our way and then He remolds it into amazing deliverance and help. How He does it, I have no clue—but that’s why He’s God and I’m not. And am I ever glad of that!
I am a coffee drinker. I drink lots of it. Used to drink even more—the strong stuff—often espresso drinks. I love my mochas! But, as with many women, caffeine can aggravate the tissue in your breasts. It doesn’t cause cancer, but it can trigger fibroid cysts.
In 2003, I found a humongous, painful lump in my right breast. It was different than any I had ever found. I went to the doctor (a different one) who had known my history of cysts, and he was very concerned following the barrage of mammograms and ultra-sounds. Things didn’t look good; this could be a cyst, but chances were, it might be disguising something more malignant. I needed surgery.
My dad came to town to take me to the hospital; he was at my home that night before the planned lumpectomy. But I was an eighth grade teacher with a full schedule, and had to make four days of detailed lesson plans. I was at work till very late, only to greet my dad briefly when I got home, and then get ready for bed—and surgery in the morning.
Dad was in the guest room asleep as I sat on the edge of my bed around 11:30 or 12. And then, WHAM! I was kicked in the left side of my chest by a mule! I clutched my heart, prayed, bound the devil in Jesus’ name, pled the blood of Jesus, and commanded the pain to cease.
God, what do I do? Do I go to the hospital and then call the hospital in the morning and say I can’t go to the hospital—I’m in the hospital? What should I do?!?
The pain slowly faded and peace came upon me. I would sleep and trust God—and in the morning tell the doctor what happened.
The next morning, after telling my dad about the incident, I told the nurses at the hospital, “I don’t want to be impolite and die on the operating table, so I must tell you, I had kicking chest pains last night.”
A cardiologist was called in, and finally I had my first EKG. And sure enough, it showed that my ticker wasn’t quite right. I told that doctor! I thought, feeling vindicated and not in the least concerned—I knew that God was now taking care of the situation.
I went through the surgery—instead of a gargantuan tumor, they found of cluster of seventeen cysts all twisted together—and removed them, and I was good to go. And I had a quest to pursue—find out about my heart.
Through a flood of tests and procedures and a very frightening angiogram (also known as a cardiac cath) in which the cardiologist could not find one of my coronaries and was cursing under his breath and jamming the scope and storming away only to return and jam again—I prayed, God, either help him now to find it or make him quit. No one’s puncturing my arteries!
He quit. I was glad. And in a far more peaceful environment a week later, in a different test, they found the problem. My right coronary artery was attached to the left side of my heart and wound between my aorta (the candy cane-shaped part) and my pulmonary artery, blocking the flow of blood to the right side of my heart when my heart-rate increased—whether through exercise, stress, anger—whatever.
However, here’s the interesting thing: The only known symptom of my condition is not chest pain—it’s sudden death.
A year after heart surgery—by-pass—I was still experiencing exhaustion and random chest pain. Finally in 2007, I went to an allergist and discovered the cause. I had asthma. And then in 2009, my contractor discovered the mold that had been brewing in the house due to previously-addressed plumbing issues, and now, after removing all the mold, and two great allergists (one human and the other, Almighty), my health is getting better and better all the time.
Here’s the deal:
- Mold in my house aggravated the unknown condition of asthma.
- Asthma slowed me down enough to keep my heart from going into overload. (Sudden death typically happens due to a wrongly-routed coronary in the forties. Before that age, there’s usually more room for expansion between the vessels through which the smaller artery runs.)
- Because of random chest pains (due to asthma), I prayed frequently over my heart for its health and longevity.
- Because of my love of coffee, I was a cyst factory, which “coincidentally” landed me in the hospital for surgery where someone would finally listen to me and order an EKG the morning after I experienced the granddaddy of all asthma-induced chest pains.
Romans 8:28 states very clearly, “And we know that God causes all things to work together for good to those who love God, to those who are called according to His purpose.”
God can take the worst that the devil devises against you and turn it around for your good. God’s not behind giving someone a house full of mold or asthma or chest pains or cysts, but He knows how to take the raw material of an attack from the devil and rewire and reroute it into your victory and for your good.
If you are dealing with the unknown or the scary, rest assured: God will cause it all to work together for your good because you love Him and you are called according to His purpose. Stand on that truth, and let it be the pillow on which you lay your head at night. You are loved by the Lover of your soul, and He will be your strength, your help, and your deliverer. Amen.
Dorothy
Tomorrow: Not alone
Read MoreA tale of two tales, Part 3: On the edge of the cliff without God
Warning: For my friends with squeamish, delicate, or Puritanical sensibilities, proceed if you wish, but be advised. I will be sharing the events of that summer morning in 1976 as clearly as I can remember after 38 years and will leave very little out.
The night before, Susie, a 16 year-old backslidden Christian who joined our group as a junior counselor, said these words to me: “I’m president of student counsel; I’m popular, and I’m doing just fine on my own. I don’t need God.”
The next morning, at the crack of dawn, a couple of girls bounded up to the sleeping counselors, seeking permission to go on an early morning hike.
“Mmmmphh,” I mumbled. Susie volunteered to go with them, so I told them to be back by breakfast.
Off they went while I drifted back to sleep. That slumber was short-lived, however; what seemed to be mere minutes later, Laura, my co-counselor, and I were awakened to the sound of a cry of terror, a loud crash, and the ensuing shrieks of seventeen teen-aged girls.
We leaped up out of our sleeping bags, expecting to see a huge water or pillow fight and all of the accompanying chaos that fifteen year-old girls can create.
Instead, what we saw sent an icy chill up my spine on that quickly warming July morning.
There, under the cliff near the girls’ strewn sleeping bags, lay Susie on her back, screaming in agony, scratching the air and kicking furiously as if at some unseen demon. Strings of profanities were spewing out of her mouth between cries for help. The girls ran around in horrified pandemonium as Laura and I ran to the site.
“She fell! She fell!” one of the hikers burst out, crying hysterically. “She fell from up there!” I looked to the top of the cliff where she pointed; Susie had fallen the thirty-five foot distance and landed on her back right in the center of an old, abandoned campfire circle, her head just an inch or two from a large stone bordering the old site, her legs and arms also just inches from the other hefty boundary rocks. One thing we didn’t notice right away, however, was that she had landed right on top of a jutting slice of bedrock across the lower part of her back. Susie was out of her mind with panic and pain.
We corralled the girls and gave the more rationally-behaving ones the job of organizing everyone else in breakfast, clean up, and break down of our site; Susie needed medical attention as soon as we could contact camp, and that meant leaving the river as soon as possible. (Remember, this was 1976, before cell phones.) The girls leapt into action and were absolute champs in gaining an atmosphere of proactive peace and self-control.
I stayed with Susie while Laura had the daunting task of sprinting a mile or so away to the nearest farmhouse to find a phone where she could call camp.
Meanwhile, Susie’s crying and profanities mixed with apologies and pleas for mercy from God. I prayed with her, listening to discern what the Lord would have me to do. She was in shock, so I covered her with a light sleeping bag and spoke calmly to her. “Let me get up!” she started screaming. “I want to get up! I can walk!”
I continued listening—probing in my spirit—to hear what God wanted me to do. I had heard of miracles; I knew the Lord was very capable of pulling one off right now for Susie, and I thought that would be extremely cool.
But instead, I sensed caution; He reminded me of my first aid classes and the warning not to move a potential back or neck injury victim, risking further damage to the spinal cord. So there I stayed with Susie—who was still alternating between profanity and repentance—as I brushed away the big fuzzy flies that were gathering.
At some point in our wait for help, she needed to relieve herself. What do I do now? I wondered. If her spine moves, it could be worse, but I can’t let her pee all over herself!
I made the decision to give her dignity while attempting to keep her spine as stationary as possible. I unzipped her jeans shorts, and as carefully as I could, I scooted them and her panties below her hips and gently placed a camp frying pan beneath her. Mission accomplished. She was relieved, and I pulled the panties and shorts back up as far as I could to cover her without moving her. That frying pan, however, was pulled out of commission and headed back to camp in the trash.
Laura had returned by now; an hour had gone by; and no rescue team had shown up. The couple in the farmhouse allowed Laura to use their phone; she called camp and reached the guy in charge of transportation. She told him, “Susie had a little fall; we think she may be hurt, and we need to have you come get us right away.” You see, our first aid training had focused on keeping calm and in control; harsh, panicked words could escalate the victim’s alarm and make things far worse. But, Susie wasn’t at that farmhouse; she was under the cliff, and Laura’s calm words sent a false signal of “no big deal” to the guys who could help us. They had another cup of coffee and cleaned up a bit of business before they left. I learned a valuable lesson from this: Never sugar-coat the threat to your security or safety if you want action. This applies, incidentally, right now in our nation.
Three hours after her fall, the guys strolled down the quarter-mile path to our site leading from the place where Big Red and the van were parked. The minute he saw Susie and understood the situation, Rod, the guy in charge, began weeping. “I am so sorry!” he took me aside and said. “I thought that it was no big deal! She’s always visiting the infirmary with something or other; I thought this was just more of the same!”
One of the other guys sprinted the quarter-mile path to Big Red and removed the wooden gate from the rear of the old truck, trekking back at top speed with it under his arm. We padded it with sleeping bags, and the guys, Laura and I, and a few strong girls circled Susie, and at the count of three, we lifted her as a unit onto the padded gate. Then we carried her as level as we could down the quarter-mile path to the cargo van. We followed the same synchronized procedure to place her on the floor of the van, carefully securing the padded gate beneath her. Laura assured me that she and the girls would take care of the rest, and I rode in the back of the van with Susie while Rod high-tailed it to the farmhouse to call the sheriff for assistance.
The call was made, and we drove to the black top highway where we were met by two vehicles. One led us, top speed with sirens blaring, and the other followed, lights flashing, to the county hospital.
At this point, Susie was growing a pale shade of green. “I’m gonna be sick,” she croaked. I surveyed the floor of the van for anything to help; nothing. And then I remembered—my bandana! I was wearing a bandana—pirate (or ‘70’s hippie) style—around my head. I pulled it off, cupped it in my hands, and instructed Susie to only turn her head to the side and not to move her back; I would catch the vomit.
She did—over and over again—while I caught every bit of it in that beloved bandana. And miraculously, she neither moved her back nor choked on the vomit.
I was never more relieved to see a place than I was to see that emergency room. Attendants were at the back door of the van, moving Susie with professional expertise onto a waiting gurney. Rod left me at the hospital to return to the campsite to help with packing and transporting the group back to camp. I tied up the bandana and its contents into a soggy bundle and dropped it in the trash receptacle by the entrance of the hospital.
As I waited there alone, I couldn’t help but reflect on the conversation the night before. “I don’t need God,” she had boldly asserted. And now, she needed Him. And He was willing to help her. Instinctively, I knew that God didn’t cause my young friend to fall off of that cliff despite her defiance; however, I believed He had met her at the foot of that precipice—and that He would not fail her or forsake her.
Soon I was startled into the present again when a stern doctor addressed me. “Are you the one who gave care to Susan after the fall?” he demanded.
Uh oh, I squirmed. “Yes, sir,” I whispered.
“Well, let me tell you, young lady—her back was broken in a very precarious place; any pressure or movement one way or the other, and it would have cost your friend her mobility; it would have left her paralyzed. But what you did ensured that her fracture didn’t damage her nerves, and she will be fine and walking around in a brace in two weeks. And after that—she’ll be as good as new.”
In my numbness, all I could do was nod and thank him.
I have no idea how I made it back to camp; the rest of that session is a blur. But when I returned home between third and fourth sessions, my mom came into my room and sat on my bed to talk, oblivious to the ordeal I had just been a part of. And for the first time since Susie’s fall, I cried. I broke down and sobbed and poured out my heart to my mom as she rocked me and held me tight.
The doctor was right; after fourth session I visited Susie, and she was up and about in her back brace, all smiles and energy. The sweet humility was back, too; she had time to think and pray and process, and although she was unsure how quickly she would jump back in to church, she knew—beyond a shadow of doubt—she needed God.
Tomorrow: Is it unknown or scary? God can turn it
Read MoreA tale of two tales, Part 2: You say you don’t need God?
Return, O backsliding children, saith the LORD; for I am a husband unto you. Jeremiah 3:14, English Revised Version
A microburst of revival hit the camp where I worked as a counselor during the summer of 1975. For all of the staff and many of the campers, Jesus was front and center—whether you liked it or not. When God moves, no one can box Him in or shut Him out.
I was a leadership counselor that summer, meaning I trained teens in a two-summer program to be counselors. I had also gone through the program as a teen, and now—at the ripe old age of 20—I was training 15 and 16 year olds myself. But I was not the bitter feminist I had been the summer before; I had been born again and was on fire for Jesus. For an up-close glimpse into the revival that happened the summer of ’75, see http://www.firstofallpray.com/?p=1447.
One 15 year old leader-in-training that summer had also recently been saved, and she and I had an instant connection in the Lord. Susie’s face beamed whenever I shared my testimony with the other teens, and I always egged her on to tell her story as well, which she was thrilled to do.
In 1976, I returned to help direct the same leadership program. Susie was back as well for her second year of the training, and I was eager to catch up with her to hear about all of her adventures in God. I figured that once you were saved, you stayed on fire. Was I ever shocked to learn that this was not always the case!
Susie had backslidden over her past year in high school. She was gracious enough but made it clear that she had no interest in talking about the Lord. I was stumped, but I just loved her and treated her like all my other counselors-in-training. And I prayed for her.
After their first session as a group under the tutelage of three other twenty-somethings and me, the teens then launched out into the various areas and programs of the camp as junior counselors (JCs). They were not paid for their first JC experience, but many plugged in to other areas after that to make a whopping $30 or so a session. Susie was one of those who stuck around after her first cabin of kids.
Third session arrived, and the leadership program was devoid of boys for that 10-day period—first time ever. So the two male counselors ditched Laura, my cohort, and me to fill in at other positions for the session. That was fine; we had a great group of seventeen rambunctious girls, full of life and fun, and they didn’t seem to care at all about the missing guys.
Each leadership session went on a three-night camping trip, usually somewhere out on one of Missouri’s scenic rivers. We typically chose remote locations—not the big campgrounds—and taught primitive camping skills and rudimentary camp crafts. And mainly, we just kicked back and enjoyed nature and each other. But with this group of seventeen girls, the camp director felt we needed a third leader to accompany us on the camping trip, so he asked Susie to fill the bill.
Off we went, along with an ecstatic Susie, piled with our gear into a van and the back of Big Red. Big Red was a ramshackle old truck that had been there ever since I was a camper, outfitted with wooden rails surrounding the wooden truck bed, and those rails were the only things separating sleeping bags, equipment, and teen-aged girls from bouncing out onto the winding two-lane highways and gravel roads. Our drivers flew down those country roads, and we sang and laughed and hung on for dear life.
We made it to our spot—a very remote location on the Meramec River. What an amazing site! The girls made camp under a thirty-five foot cliff, and the three counselors set up closer to the river, nestling our ground tarps and sleeping bags on the luxurious comfort of the sandy bar by the stream.
Of course, at night, there was the campfire and s’mores following my favorite camp supper of foil packs with hamburger, potatoes, onions, and cheese baked in glowing embers before we built the fire into a towering flaming giant.
After the last song was sung and the last tale had been told, with the fire dying back to quiet crackling, I shared about the Lord of nature who loved all of us so much that He gave His Son. The girls listened attentively, but I noticed that Susie was looking down, not giving eye contact. After the girls retreated to their sleeping bags, Laura decided to turn in for the night as well, leaving Susie and me to talk.
She told me that her past year in high school was incredible. She had made a whole new set of friends and had become very involved in everything. I asked about her relationship with Jesus, wanting to minister the love and grace of God to her.
“I’m president of student counsel,” she asserted. “I’m popular, and I’m doing just fine on my own. I don’t need God.”
She was flirting with danger. As I argued and pleaded and shared with her out of Scripture that she certainly did need the Lord, that He longed for her to return to Him, she rebuffed every word I said.
I crawled into my sleeping bag, praying quietly for her long into the night.
The next morning, at the crack of dawn, a couple of girls bounded up to the counselors—snoozing away in our sleeping bags—ready to hike.
“Mmmmphh,” I mumbled. Susie volunteered to go with them, so I told them to be back by breakfast.
And what happened next to the girl who “didn’t need God” would be indelibly branded onto my soul—and hers—forever.
Tomorrow: On the edge of the cliff without God.
Read MoreA tale of two tales, Part 1: God works all things together for good
And we know that God causes all things to work together for good to those who love God, to those who are called according to His purpose. Romans 8:28
I am a firm believer that God causes all things to work together for good for those who love Him and who are called according to His purposes. Notice, I did not say that I believe that God causes all things, as some erroneously believe. I do not and cannot accept that about the Lord who died for me. He only does wondrous things (see Psalm 72:18, KJV), and according to the Apostle James, “Every good thing given and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shifting shadow” (James 1:17).
Now this truth in Romans 8 does not mean that you’ll “float by on flowery beds of ease” as one of my favorite Bible teachers used to say. It doesn’t mean that you’ll no longer live in a fallen world; it doesn’t mean that natural law will be forever suspended for you (although God will provide miracles galore for you); it doesn’t mean that you will never suffer consequences due to lapses in judgment or sin; nor does it mean that the devil will never seek to attack you again. It simply means this: As you follow the Lord and love Him with all your heart, your soul, and your strength, you can trust that He will turn everything that comes your way around for your good because you are called according to His purpose. His mercies never fail (see Lamentations 3:22), and He cares for you affectionately and cares about you watchfully (1 Peter 5:7b, AMP).
This Romans 8 truth is where I choose to park my car, to anchor my boat, and to camp out for the rest of my life. Joshua said, “…as for me and my house, we will serve the LORD” (Joshua 24:15b), and I choose to say, “As for me, God causes all things [even demonic attacks!] to turn around for my good because I love Him and am called according to His purpose.” Because of our loving Heavenly Father and His precious Son and the mighty Holy Spirit, all things will turn around for our good and will be made into stepping stones for our feet as we embrace our God and His call on our lives!
When you go through trials, it is critical to remind yourself that God absolutely does turn all things around for your good. And like everything else in His kingdom, you access this wonderful privilege that belongs to you by faith—by simply trusting Him to do for you what He has promised in His Word to do.
This week I will be sharing two experiences from my life which clearly illustrate this fact. And although these two stories are completely unrelated, you will be surprised how God tied them together supernaturally to bring blessing and comfort to me when I most needed it.
We live, move, and have our being under the wings and the protective shadow of an awesome God!
Dorothy
Faithful is He who calls you, and He also will bring it to pass. 1 Thessalonians 5:24
But the Lord is faithful, and He will strengthen and protect you from the evil one. 2 Thessalonians 3:3
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