A Place of Healing

by Joni Eareckson Tada

  But it didn’t turn out that way.

  Because of the pain I’ve been experiencing in my back, I’ve had to stay away from the easel for some time now; holding pencils between my teeth and leaning over at an awkward angle to draw … well, it only makes for more pain. Even so, I often find myself wheeling into my art studio to look at the unfinished sketch that’s still sitting there on my easel. I refuse to put it away in my flat file.

  Why? Because I’m hopeful. I believe—I really do believe—that sometime in the future, maybe in a few months, I’ll be able to get back to drawing on a regular basis. My artwork is a ministry, and even if I end up only doing line sketches rather than a full-blown painting … well, that’s okay.

  I trust in the God of all hope. I trust that He has given me an artistic talent to use for His glory, and for the encouragement of my brothers and sisters in Christ.

  I don’t know when, but I know I will draw again.

  That’s not wishful thinking, that’s hope, drawn from the deep, artesian wells of the God of hope.

  Don’t Look at the Wall

  We began this chapter with a story about a young king who was so filled with fear that he couldn’t absorb God’s words of comfort and hope—even when he found himself eyeball to eyeball with the Lord’s prophet.

  Ahaz couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from the northern horizon, where he knew that two enemy armies would soon be massing.

  My friend Dan, the race-car driver, would have some timely words for Judah’s king (if he wouldn’t listen to Isaiah). He would say, “Ahaz, dude, you’re looking at the wall. Steer toward the open space!”

  Dan has seen many turns around the track. I can’t say I understand much about his sport—or the passion to risk life and limb traveling at the high speeds those drivers do. But I can certainly appreciate Dan’s love and enthusiasm for his car and crew.

  Some time ago I asked Dan about Dale Earnhardt’s infamous 2001 crash, which took the NASCAR icon’s life. The horrifying clip is now on YouTube, and gets plenty of hits—even after all these years. As you watch it, it’s obvious Dale couldn’t pull out of that plunge toward the wall. His speed and the trajectory of his car just made escape impossible. I asked Dan if that kind of thing happens often on a speedway.

  “Oh yes,” he said. “Guys in their cars get in a spin, get bumped, and they see that wall coming at them. But I’ll tell you one thing they don’t do, Joni. They don’t look at that wall! Their natural instincts tell them to, but their training tells them to keep their eyes on the track and steer out of that spin. You see, if they look at the wall, they’ll freeze. Your body just reacts; it can’t help it. But if you look down the speedway and steer toward that open space, all your nerve endings are concentrating on that, not on bracing for an impact.”

  That’s the way we are in our human nature. We fix our eyes on the trial that looms immediately before us, allowing ourselves to become gripped with fear. We say to ourselves, This is impossible! I’ll never get through this. I’ll never find a way through. I’ll never recover. I’d better brace for an impact, because it’s going to be a hard, hard hit. AHHHHHH….

  But after listening to Dan and his race-car wisdom, I realize that the key is to take your eyes off the wall and start concentrating on the future and its opportunities (steer for the open space!), rather than on the present dilemmas that freeze us into impotence.

  The apostle Peter was brave to walk on water toward the Lord Jesus, but he too took his focus off the Lord and looked at the wall—and his natural instincts braced for an impact. And what would have happened to the Israelites crossing the Red Sea if they had stood staring, transfixed by the walls of water on each side of them rather than looking ahead of them to the miracle path God had created for them through the heart of the sea?

  Little wonder the book of Hebrews tells us to fix our eyes on Jesus, and the author of Colossians says, “Set your heart on things above,” and the Gospels say, “Lift up your head, for your salvation draws nigh.”

  It just may keep you from hitting the wall!

  And now, just one last piece of perspective-changing counsel.

  Finally … the Power of a Song

  Whenever I’m wheeling through the office, down the hallway, or driving down the freeway, puttering in the backyard, or sitting in the kitchen, I love to sing. I wake up in the morning, and my heart wants to sing whenever I’m enjoying the routines of life.

  Have you ever wondered if Jesus sang?

  In the C. S. Lewis children’s book The Magician’s Nephew, the great lion Aslan sang the world of Narnia into existence. But what does the Bible say of the Son of Man?

  I find it quite easy to picture Him singing, humming a melody as He walked up the road from Jericho to Jerusalem. We know that the Jews of that day sang in their synagogues and on their holy feast days. Wouldn’t Jesus’ family have sung, too? Surely there must have been many times that the Lord’s heart filled with joy to overflowing and—you just know He had to let loose with a song.

  But does the New Testament actually say so? Does it record any instances of His singing? As a matter of fact, it does. But just one, in Matthew 26:30. The scene for this song, however, is not a sunny hillside.… It’s not as He sailed with His disciples in the boat.… It’s not as He walked through a vineyard at twilight, the fragrant fruit hanging in great clusters, almost ready to harvest.

  It was in the Upper Room on the night Jesus was betrayed. It’s recorded that after “they had sung a hymn, they went out to the Mount of Olives” (Matt. 26:30).

  It was just before He went to Gethsemane … and then to the cross.

  Of all the times and places, the Lord Jesus chose to have us remember Him singing, it was in the hours before His great sacrifice and death.

  This speaks to me in my wheelchair. It shows me how to follow the Lord in song when my heart is heavy, when I’m facing disappointment, when the pain descends, when I’m facing illness or hardship, or when I’m just trying to deal with one more day of paralysis. Ephesians 5:19–20 has some “musical” advice for me. It says, “Sing and make music in your heart to the Lord, always giving thanks to God the Father for everything, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.”

  Did you get that? We are commanded to sing while we always give thanks to God for everything! Earlier we read about giving thanks “in” all things, but in this passage, God tells us to always give thanks “for” everything. That little word “for” can encompass an awful lot of pain and suffering. But maybe that’s why God reminds us to sing.

  The fact is, as you and I follow His steps up the Mount of Olives into the garden of Gethsemane—and down the road to Calvary, too—we also should take up our cross and sing. Like this morning when I came to work, I wheeled through the front doors, singing:

  Happy day, happy day!

  When Jesus washed my sins away.

  He taught me how to watch and pray,

  and live rejoicing every day.

  Happy day, happy day!

  When Jesus washed my sins away.4

  Our natural inclination, of course, is not to sing when we’re hurting.

  But we’re not talking about natural inclinations or feelings here; we’re talking about singing as an act of faith, trust, and devotion to the Savior who gave Himself for us. (Think of the apostle Paul who sang, despite his chains, in that dungeon in Philippi.)

  So my friend, no matter if your emotions are up or down, follow the Lord’s lead today. May the mind of Christ your Savior live in you from day to day, and ask God to simply put a song in your heart as you pick up your cross daily and follow Him.

  Singing is a perspective changer.

  But nothing happens until you open your mouth, by faith, and hit that first note!

  Eight

  Ultimate Healing

  When Christ
calls me Home I shall go with the gladness of a boy bounding away from school.

  —Adoniram Judson

  Through all the years of my paralysis, I have longed—yearned, ached, wept, and prayed—for God’s healing in my broken body.

  After forty-plus years in my wheelchair, however, I had settled into the realization that in His love, sovereignty, and far-reaching, perfect, but often incomprehensible plan, He has chosen to gently but firmly say, “No, child. Not now. Not yet.”

  As a result, thoughts of ultimate healing in heaven have frequently become my focus, my passion, my dream, my meditation, and my song. Healing will come, and it won’t be a halfway job. Restoration to physical wholeness will only be the tiniest fraction of His good plan and purpose for me.

  Those thoughts have brought me great peace, even in the face of great trials.

  In 1995 I wrote a book on heaven. Meditations on our future, forever home have been one of the principle themes of my ministry, writing, counseling, and speaking ever since.

  But when that hostile, disruptive, unwelcome intruder named chronic pain came into my life a couple years ago, it came as a tormentor, mocker, and thief, robbing me of rest, peace, and the ability to do so many of those satisfying and fruitful things God had enabled me to do through the years of quadriplegia. Paint? Speak? Write? Sing? Travel? Broadcast on radio and TV? Strategic ministry planning? As of this writing, all of those activities have become infinitely more difficult. Until something changes, I honestly don’t know how much longer I will be able to continue them.

  All of the old questions about physical healing—some of which I have discussed in this book—have come back to me with a fresh immediacy and flashing-red-light urgency. How can I explain it? It’s like thinking you’ve completed all the requirements and wrapped up a certain college course only to discover that you haven’t passed it at all, and that you have a major comprehensive exam immediately in front of you.

  I had become “used to” paralysis, if I can put it that way. But I don’t know how in the world I can get “used to” constant, driving pain. I had learned how to cope with the hassles, hardships, and seemingly endless physical necessities and routines of quadriplegia, but I don’t know how to cope with nonstop agony. I need rescuing. I need deliverance. I need healing from this suffering. I need God to do something. As quickly as possible.

  I used to dial His number at various times throughout the daylight and nighttime hours; now it’s a moment by moment 911 call to God—on speed dial.

  I used to pray for grace to maximize each day; now I pray for survival.

  “Quickly Psalms”

  As a result of these unwanted changes in my life, I have become a great fan of what I call the “Quickly Psalms.” These are those psalms—mostly David’s—in which he not only makes his requests of God, but adds a “rush order” to them. In other words, “Lord, I’m making this request (and I know I need to wait on You), but I really don’t have a lot of leisure time to wait on Your answer. If You don’t come through pretty quickly, then You don’t have to bother with answering at all, because I will be toast!”

  Just listen to the sheer urgency of these ancient cries for help, from the psalm:

  But you, O LORD, be not far off;

  O my Strength, come quickly to help me.…

  Turn your ear to me,

  come quickly to my rescue.…

  Come quickly to help me,

  O Lord my Savior.…

  Be pleased, O Lord, to save me;

  O Lord, come quickly to help me.…

  Do not hide your face from your servant;

  answer me quickly, for I am in trouble.

  Come near and rescue me.…

  Hasten, O God, to save me;

  O Lord, come quickly to help me.…

  Yet I am poor and needy;

  come quickly to me, O God.

  You are my help and my deliverer;

  O Lord, do not delay.…

  Be not far from me, O God;

  come quickly, O my God, to help me.…

  May your mercy come quickly to meet us,

  for we are in desperate need.…

  Do not hide your face from me

  when I am in distress.

  Turn your ear to me;

  when I call, answer me quickly.…

  O Lord, I call to you; come quickly to me.

  Hear my voice when I call to you.…

  Answer me quickly, O Lord;

  my spirit fails.1

  You gotta love it. David is saying, “Oh, won’t You hurry, Lord? Yes, I honor You for Your grace, Your provision, Your compassion, and Your deliverance. But is there any way You could maybe grease the skids just a little? Maybe send the help by FedEx priority overnight instead of by mule train?”

  I like that. I like the fact that the Bible acknowledges that we will find ourselves in emergencies and times of deep distress or intense fear when we need immediate help or an emergency injection of hope directly into a main artery of our soul.

  When Peter found the sea surface on which he walked suddenly more liquid than a few moments before, he uttered what may be the shortest prayer in the Bible:

  But when he saw the wind, he was afraid and, beginning to sink, cried out, “Lord, save me!” (Matt. 14:30)

  So yes, I’ve been uttering some Peter Prayers and Quickly Psalms of my own. My prayers for healing have come back to an urgent level—more reminiscent of those times when I was a scared teenager in a Baltimore hospital than at any time in many, many years.

  But this present life crisis has had another effect as well.

  It has trebled my heart’s longing for the ultimate healing that will be mine just around the corner in heaven. My friend, this is not a daydream or a pleasant diversion for me; it’s a lifeline. It’s hope. It’s sanity. It’s a place where my mind can go when it’s way too difficult to contemplate where I am.

  A death wish?

  Not at all. It’s a simple longing for the comfort, relief, refreshment, and joy of my Father’s house. I already have a room with my name on it, paid for, reserved, and waiting for me; Jesus told me so.

  There is plenty of room for you in my Father’s home. If that weren’t so, would I have told you that I’m on my way to get a room ready for you? And if I’m on my way to get your room ready, I’ll come back and get you so you can live where I live. (John 14:2–3 MSG)

  Does that still sound morbid to you? It shouldn’t.

  Let me illustrate. I have friends who backpack and have described the experience to me. Now just imagine a fifty-five-pound pack on your back—the straps digging into your shoulder muscles—and a long, long hike with zigzagging switchbacks and a steep elevation gain. Now imagine that you’re on the return journey, back to the trailhead, your car, and home. The sun burns down on you, you stub your toes on roots and rocks, you’re covered with dust, scratches, and mosquito bites, your shoulders ache, your legs are beginning to feel like rubber, and you know from the small fires within your hiking boots that your blisters are making a serious statement.

  Sure, you may still share some good conversation with your hiking buddies. You may still be walking through some spectacular terrain—with mountain views at every corner, wildlife in the forest glades, puffy cumulus clouds riding through a blue vault of sky, and lovely trickling streams winding through alpine meadows. It’s all very nice and pleasing to the eye, and part of your soul acknowledges every scene of beauty and gives thanks to a mighty Creator.

  But mostly, you just want to go home.

  You can’t wait to take the pack off your shoulders, the boots off your smoldering feet, get out of that sun that saps your energy, take a long, long drink of something cold, climb into a hot, soapy shower, and start telling your loved ones about your journey.

  It’s the longing of the saints in the
book of Hebrews:

  These men of faith I have mentioned died without ever receiving all that God had promised them; but they saw it all awaiting them on ahead and were glad, for they agreed that this earth was not their real home but that they were just strangers visiting down here. And quite obviously when they talked like that, they were looking forward to their real home in heaven.

  If they had wanted to, they could have gone back to the good things of this world. But they didn’t want to. They were living for heaven. And now God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has made a heavenly city for them. (Heb. 11:13–16 TLB)

  These good people, weary and worn from long journeys, saw a city sparkling on the far horizon, and knew it for what is was: home. The only home they really desired. And they were filled with longing and pangs of homesickness for a place where they had never seen, but a place where they truly belonged.

  “Happily Ever After”

  All of us have special books that have been handed down to us, and I’m no exception. I’m thinking of a big red book of fairy tales that sat on a shelf in my sister’s bedroom. It had beautiful end pages, and each story was illustrated with lots of detail.

  To this day, if you were to ask me what the Pied Piper looked like, I could give you an exact description—all the way down to his funny hat and pointed shoes. Even when I see twisted oak trees, I think of the color plates in that big red book of fairy tales.

  And oh, what wonderful memories! I can close my eyes and hear Daddy coming upstairs in the evening to help us girls get settled in. He’d open up that book and read to Kathy and me. Hansel and Gretel … Goldilocks and the Three Bears … Little Red Riding Hood … Billy Goats Gruff. (Does anyone ever read these stories to children anymore?) They were classic stories of good and evil, and the best part was always near the end of the story.

  My father’s voice would slow a little as he read those final, heartwarming words: “And they lived happily ever after.” It meant Hansel and Gretel lived, and the old witch died, Little Red Riding Hood survived, and the nasty old wolf was banished. The goats had the run of the pasture, and the old troll was never seen again. It’s wonderful to live happily ever after.