After the election, many of us woke up feeling our liberties were violated. In less time that it took to cast a vote our inalienable rights seemed in mortal jeopardy. Wanting to make America great again (when was it?) along with a lame adherence to its-the-way-its-done, she-deserves-the candidacy lack of forethought on the part of the Democrats rallied enough disparate voters to the polls to make Donald Trump our forty-fifth president. Congratulations, we did this to ourselves. As much as we like to point fingers, we are all responsible for the illness our nation. Our national ill health happened because of what we didn’t do. We didn’t run for office or vote. We didn’t hold our party standard-bearers to task. Now, we’re stuck with a nation sorely in need of some miracle cures.
Back at the dawn of man when rocks still smoldered and television and I shared the innocence of post-infancy, Oral Roberts starred in his TV show. Every week, I witnessed, with awe and fascination peppered with lots of skepticism, miraculously healing. The blind and the lame by the laying on of hands and shouting in a loud southern drawl, “Be healed!”
Sure enough, the sightless saw, the crippled threw down crutches and walked. Young as I was – I emerged a skeptic, it seems – I doubted then and still to a lesser degree. When Jesus healed the leper, he told the man to tell no one. My guess is the reasoning behind J’s admonition had to do with skeptics like me.
Allowing popular opinion to dictate the is-ness of a thing is mighty tempting. We are all aware how a crowd loves to maintain the status quo, a which does not include lightning fast restorations. If you spend too much time with your fellow man any step toward wholeness -the miraculous – comes under intense scrutiny.
The early televangelist might’ve restored a few who appeared to health. I suspect the few healings didn’t last long for the sole reason that enough time needed to elapse for the cured or his peers to accept the reality of what happened, otherwise it was too easy to talk the newly cured out of whatever did transpire.
Two weeks ago while slicing a frozen English muffin, I managed to hack the entire pad of my left thumb off. I was not in danger of dying unless I had hit my head when my knees buckled from seeing a hunk of me on the knife blade. The experience impressed upon me how fast things can change. Searing pain and lots of blood made it clear I needed a different way of looking at things, right then.
Searing pain and the copious amount of blood made it clear I needed a different way of looking at things, right then. A faith-healer might fix my afflicted pollex to its former perfection in an instant but what about all the dramatic aftermath? Isn’t that part of what makes an injury so immediately believable, so changes your perspective post haste? Wouldn’t there need to be an at least as much drama for healing to happen? Something equal to alter the view of yourself?
If things heal over time without benefit of presto change-o has any less of a miracle happened? In a couple of weeks and creating an environment conducive to health, I am in amazement at the improvement.
The body is programmed to be whole and well equipped to go about the business of correcting what is wrong. The afflicted digit still looks to have been attacked by a crazed beaver, but a miracle nonetheless took place.
While I won’t be installing thumbtacks soon not with my left hand, I am bandage less and almost pain-free thanks to the body’s innate proclivity to be whole. In my, all shook up-ness two Sundays ago to imagine my opposable digit in its present state would defy my ability to dream. Weeks needed to pass to for my mind and body to come together to appreciate the restoration.
The ailments that our country is, now, experiencing may become worse before it becomes better. Until we stop blaming others and start working on our fractured selves, you can count on more drama. The pain might be unbearable at times. Like our bodies, if we give it time and a healthy, loving environment, it will heal.