A Place of Healing

by Joni Eareckson Tada

  Soon, however, the man slipped away from his earthly life. And we can have no doubt at all that when he opened his eyes that next time, he wasn’t disappointed at all.

  Far from it!

  Nine

  Suffering … and the Harvest

  Those who sow tears shall reap joy. Yes, they go out weeping, carrying seed for sowing, and return singing, carrying their sheaves.

  Psalm 126:5–6 TLB

  I began this book by describing this particular season of my life as one of all-out warfare with virtually nonstop pain.

  I’ve certainly fought many battles through the years on many different fronts. But in God’s wisdom and sovereign timing, He has chosen to allow this era of my life, near my sixtieth year, as a time when the war has become unusually intense.

  Maybe that’s where you are in life today. Against your inclination and every desire, you’ve had to become a fighter. It could be a fight for your marriage, a struggle over employment or finances, a long-running custody battle, or an arm-wrestling match with the bureaucracy over adopting a child. Maybe you have a special-needs child, and every day seems like a mighty struggle to just keep your head above water. Or perhaps, like me, you had to climb into the ring for the thousandth round with energy-sapping, mind-scrambling pain.

  No one wants a personal war, and everyone who has one would like to be rid of it. But in Christ, however, the hardships themselves are not wasted. As tools in the hands of a loving, all-wise, sovereign God, these very struggles that cause us such frustration, sadness, anxiety, and tears, will bring back benefits to our lives a thousandfold.

  Did I say a thousandfold? The apostle Paul would scorn such a number, asserting that it’s ridiculous to even try to do comparisons. He wrote, “In my opinion whatever we may have to go through now is less than nothing compared with the magnificent future God has in store for us.”1 The writer to the Hebrews reminds us that our current hardship, if we endure it as loving discipline, will produce “a harvest of righteousness and peace for those who have been trained by it.”2

  For me, the pain has been great … but so has the harvest.

  Among other things, my personal conflict has this undeniable benefit: It is a vivid reminder to me of the ceaseless warfare between the kingdom of darkness and the kingdom of light, all across our world at this very moment.

  Sometimes, when our days are comfortable and easy, when we’re wrapped in the warm web of family and friends and activities and abundance, we can forget one of the most basic realities in all of life: that we are members of a great worldwide body in which much suffering is occurring.

  Some people use electronic devices to remind themselves of events and appointments in their lives—cell phones and iPhones and PDAs that chirp, bleat, tweet, or startle everyone with loud clips of dance music.

  Physical pain is a reminder, too.

  It’s a sharp, unrelenting prod to remember that many men, women, and little ones who belong to our Lord Jesus are—right this moment—also wrestling with pain

  —or contending with dark, hateful powers that seek to crush them.

  —or fighting for life itself.

  For years now I’ve had what you might call an “enforced opportunity” to pray for people and needs and ministries in just about every corner of the planet. Because of my condition, I have to be put in my bed early every evening, with hours remaining before I’m ready for sleep.

  On many such nights, I’ve used those hours to plug into a matchless worldwide network—and it’s not CNN, Fox News, the BBC, or the Home and Garden channel. I simply begin to pray for fellow believers in multiple nations that I’m aware of, or have come to know through the years, who find themselves on the ragged edge of poverty, pain, oppression, or need—or those who have devoted their days to working with these dear souls.

  When you watch CNN, you get to observe and hear the stories—tales of woe—about people enduring all manner of natural and man-made heartaches, disasters, and tragedies. But when you turn off the TV and begin to intercede before the throne of God for saints scattered like diamond dust across the map of the world, you actually find yourself becoming part of the story! And you have the privilege of seeing those sad stories change, as God steps in with grace, provision, courage, perseverance, hope, and yes, sometimes miraculous healing.

  Some people I will pray for now and then, on a rotating basis week by week. Others, like my Pain Pal, I pray for every day.

  Africa: My Pain Pal

  Sometimes I feel discouraged and think my work’s in vain,

  But then the Holy Spirit revives my soul again.

  There is a balm in Gilead to make the wounded whole;

  There is a balm in Gilead to heal the sin-sick soul.

  I sing this African American spiritual a lot when I’m feeling discouraged or filled with fear and doubt. I sing it when I’m fighting off anxiety or worry, wondering if my disability will get worse. Songs like these are an encouragement to me; and I’m glad the Lord has given me “songs in the night,” as the Bible puts it.

  But God has also given me something else to encourage me when my wheelchair begins to get me down. It’s a photograph hanging next to my desk where I work. I don’t know the name of the man in the photo, and I’m not even sure what town he lives in. But he is my inspiration.

  Let me tell you why: Our Wheels for the World team members met this man, lying outside his little house, during one of our wheelchair distributions in Africa. His “house” was little more than a roofless lean-to, made up of cinder blocks and banana leaves. When our team members encountered him, he was lying against half of a trashcan, with his back propped against the wall—apparently the only position that gave him a measure of comfort.

  The villagers all knew he was in great and constant pain. He’s a Christian, and his church helps meet some of his needs; others give him alcohol to deaden the pain. Day after day he lies there. It’s all that he can do.

  When my friend on the Wheels team asked if he could take a photo, the man said, “Wait,” and slowly pulled his drooping shirt up over his shoulder. “Now it’s okay,” he said. This man in deep pain still possessed a sense of human dignity. And no, he didn’t want a wheelchair. What good would it do? It would hurt too much to try to use one. He just wanted us to pray for him.

  And so I do. Every day.

  Romans 12:4 says that each member of the body of Christ belongs to the other. That is a powerful statement … and worth a moment’s meditation. Because God tells me in His Word that I am intimately connected with that man in pain. He belongs to me, and I belong to him. My victory in pain—somehow, some way—helps him. And it’s why I keep his photograph above my desk. His battle is my battle, and my battle is also his.

  People who walk into my office sometimes ask about this African man in the photo. Well, I can’t say his name; I may never learn it this side of heaven. But I can tell his story. And if ever I start to feel a little sorry for myself, I just look up and remind myself that he is the body of Christ … and so am I. And each member of the body belongs to the other.

  Maybe you haven’t thought much about Romans 12:4 and your larger family scattered across the nations. Maybe it hasn’t occurred to you for awhile that you have real brothers and sisters with needs and hopes and dreams and sorrows who walk with the same Jesus that you walk with every day.

  I’d like this little chapter to just remind you when you find yourself wrestling with hard times, financial shortfalls, or maybe severe pain, that your family suffers those things too—and seeks provision from their Lord. Remember the words of Peter?

  Take a firm stand against him, and be strong in your faith. Remember that your Christian brothers and sisters all over the world are going through the same kind of suffering you are. (1 Peter 5:9 NLT)

  In the next few pages, come meet some very special mem
bers of your family in faraway places. And let me just add this: I would have never met these believers, or had the opportunity to help them, apart from my disability and my wheelchair.

  From Cuba: Healing After Forty-Seven Years

  Jesús is a forty-seven-year-old Cuban man who is not only paralyzed, but has some brain damage, too. His father brought him to our wheelchair distribution that October 22, which just happened to be Jesús’ birthday. A new wheelchair and Bible were two birthday gifts everyone in the family would always remember. While Jesús was being fitted for his chair, his dad told us what happened on the day their son was born.

  It was 1962, during what has become known in the history books as the first day the public became aware of the Cuban Missile Crisis. On that day, our whole nation went on red alert, President Kennedy went on TV, and Americans everywhere braced themselves for an all-out Soviet nuclear attack launched from Cuba. In later years, Soviet general and army chief of operations Anatoly Gribkov wrote that “Nuclear catastrophe was hanging by a thread … and we weren’t counting days or hours, but minutes.”

  As frightening as October 22, 1962, might have been in America, the residents of Cuba were also terrified. They had been told that the Americans were going to bomb them. The Castro government put out an alert, and there was a mad rush to evacuate many buildings, including hospitals. At that very unhappy moment in Havana, Jesús was being born. All the nurses had to leave the floor, but the soon-to-be mother just couldn’t leave. She had to deliver her own baby with no one to assist. In the process, her tiny infant fell to the floor and landed on his head—causing permanent brain damage. You can imagine the hurt and resentment Jesús’ mother and father harbored against America ever since then.

  But there we were, over forty-six years later—fifteen of us Americans—presenting Jesús and his mother and father with a new wheelchair, as well as the life-changing gospel of Jesus Christ. And that gospel brought healing, help, and hope to this little Cuban family. Jesús was so excited. His father, in tears, said to us, “Now I will be able to take my son outside for walks in his wheelchair.”

  You know … a nuclear disaster was not only averted years ago in October, a disaster of another sort was averted in that this family was rescued out of spiritual darkness. Psalm 57:1 says, “Have mercy on me, O God.… I will take refuge in the shadow of your wings until the disaster has passed.”

  Do you see what I mean? That’s just one little story that would have never happened, apart from my diving accident, my paralysis, God’s repeated no to my requests for immediate healing, and the eventual ministries we began that became known as Joni and Friends and Wheels for the World.

  Out of the hardship, out of the suffering, a harvest of righteousness and peace, and eternal life for a Cuban family that had known so much bitterness and sorrow.

  Now you may be reading these words about our Cuba team and perhaps thinking that you wouldn’t be very comfortable doing what they do—leaving your familiar safety zone to bring help to impoverished people in spiritually dark and sometimes dangerous places. Yes, in fact it can be a risky proposition sometimes. And if you decided to never participate in such an outreach, you could avoid some of those risks.

  But you might also miss some very unique gifts you could find nowhere else in life.

  From Cameroon: Joyceline’s Song

  I have a physical-therapist friend who recently received the most priceless, precious gift you can imagine.

  But it wasn’t a normal gift. Not at all.

  My friend arrived in Cameroon, a very poor country on the west coast of Africa, with our team, ready to go and fit disabled children to new wheelchairs.

  It turned out to be very difficult for the team to travel to the place where we were to distribute the chairs. It took six hours by jeep on steep, rutted roads, and it took the truck loaded with hundreds of wheelchairs even longer than that. Hours later, it was pitch-dark by the time they pulled up to the small center where all the people with disabilities were.

  They’d been arriving all afternoon from distant villages, literally dragging themselves through the dirt, or being carried by relatives. Now the little center—even this late at night—was packed full of disabled people resting on the floor in thin blankets.

  Even so, they were deliriously happy when our physical therapists pulled up outside. Our team kept the lights of the jeep and the truck turned on, while disabled children and adults and family members spilled out of the door into the parking area, where they celebrated the team’s arrival with a welcome song. They were so excited that their song lasted over an hour!

  The next morning our team began fitting each disabled child and adult. There was one little girl named Joyceline who had an enlarged head due to hydrocephalus; she was not able to walk and had also been battling malaria. She was the quiet one who watched all the goings on, sitting silently on the floor with a shy smile, wide-open eyes not missing a thing.

  She waited her turn without complaining or whining. Finally, when several hours went by, it was time to fit Joyceline.

  And that’s where the unusual gift comes in.

  As my physical therapist friend started measuring this precious African child, the little girl began singing (almost in a whisper) a song over the physical therapist. She placed her tiny hand on my friend’s shoulder, and began composing her own little worship song.

  Jesus loves our friends, and He cares so much for us.

  He loves you for helping us, and sharing with us His care.

  Jesus is the One we love so much; we are happy in His love.

  We want to say we love you too.

  Joyceline made up that little song as she went along, singing her praise and worship to God while she rested her little hand on the physical therapist’s shoulder. (Our charismatic friends might say she was “singing in the Spirit.”)

  That day the Spirit of Christ permeated the entire hillside of that small village in Cameroon, and our Wheels team members discovered that those who are poor in this world are often the richest in faith. Not only that, the physical therapist received the best gift ever—the gratitude of this dear little daughter of the living God.

  Oh sure, she had given Joyceline the gift of a wheelchair. But what my friend received was far more valuable. Really, priceless: the incalculable thankfulness of the poorest of the poor.

  I still look at Joyceline’s photo from time to time, with her bright smile and shiny eyes. A picture of the joy of Jesus … flowing straight out of suffering.

  From Uganda: Lazarus, Come Forth!

  The final day of our wheelchair and Bible distribution was held in a mud-and-stick house in a small village called Nyarushanje.

  Mrs. Dimbirwe brought her husband, Semu, for a wheelchair. Some years earlier he had fallen from a tree, breaking his right leg and hip, and incurring a severe brain injury. His chin was on his chest, sitting there on the floor silent, almost catatonic. It was as if everyone around him didn’t exist; he sat there shrunken and frozen.

  No one talked to Semu, not even his wife. In fact, no one ever talked to him. But while they were waiting for his wheelchair, one of our team members, Dana Croxton, began explaining to Mrs. Dimbirwe how important it is to keep up communication with a brain-injured person.

  Lifting Semu’s head, Dana began to ask him to perform a few tasks—simple things like squeezing Dana’s hand or resisting a push.

  Then the Holy Spirit broke in with something that wasn’t a part of the normal therapist-patient interaction. Dana began to speak directly to Semu, telling him he was a man like anyone else, an equal and a brother, that God loved him and Jesus died for him, and that God wasn’t angry over this injury, but deeply valued Semu.

  This went on for about two minutes. Those looking on must have thought Dana had lost his senses, because there was no visible response from the disabled man.

  And then,
very suddenly, Semu came to life.

  In an instant, the injured man became very animated, smiling, laughing, and then speaking in a firm voice back to Dana. Soon the two men were weeping and hugging as Semu firmly squeezed both of Dana’s hands.

  Finally, just before Dana began the wheelchair fitting, Semu reached up and pulled Dana to hug him. Hard. He then said into Dana’s ear in perfect English, “You are my brother, my friend, and God loves me.”

  Everyone was stunned and amazed—and no one more so than Semu’s wife. Just moments earlier he had sat there shriveled and silent, with no one relating to him. And it was probably because no one really believed there was “anybody” inside that shell of a man.

  John chapter 11 gives us the account of Jesus and Lazarus. It’s a hair-raising, soul-stirring moment when Jesus calls forth a dead man, saying, “Come out!” And you know the story from there. Lazarus walks out of his grave to the utter amazement of everyone.

  Well, that day in the small village of Nyarushanje, Uganda, a man named Semu, with severe disabilities—and probably in great pain—came forth from a living grave. It may not have been physical death from which he emerged, as Lazarus did centuries earlier, but most assuredly, a man was called out of spiritual death to life by the Son of God Himself.

  The miracle took place because a member of our team took the time to not only notice him, but with his compassionate touch and words of kindness, he inasmuch as told Semu, “Come out!”

  Dana reached out and treated him with respect and dignity, knowing full well that, yes, there truly was somebody inside that physical shell—a man greatly loved by Jesus.

  From Peru: The Little Red Wheelchair

  It’s always hard to let go when your child goes to be with the Lord. After all, it’s not supposed to be that way; children are supposed to bury their parents, not the other way around.

  That’s how Kim and Jay felt when their eight-year-old daughter, Lindy, with cerebral palsy, went home to be with Jesus after a bad seizure in 1998.