Inside the cocoon of pain and rest

I often have trouble keeping track of time here, but this week has felt especially surreal. After hurting my back during a morning walk at the beach on Tuesday, my days merged into a painful blur. It is only now, as I reflect on the unusual events of the week that I have some clarity, and feel compelled to write and chronicle God at work in my cocoon of pain.

I had woken up early to go for a run, and my mom had got up at the same time. So instead of going out alone, I asked her out for a walk instead, together with our two puppies. At some point, I needed to jump across a small stretch of seawater. I carried the puppies and prepared to leap. In my mind’s eye, I envisioned a perfect bound – I would take off on my right leg, leap, and land on the other side on my left leg. Simple enough.

Except that at the moment of taking off, the wet sand beneath my foot gave way, my foot sank into the sea, my body weight shifted, and a searing pain shot down my back all the way down my right leg. I was in shock and could barely drag myself over the breakwater. I sat down, breathed deeply and tried raising my legs. Even just lifting them slightly above the ground was very painful. Yet I somehow managed to limp on with my mom, stop for breakfast at a café and then catch a cab home.

The pain got worse over the next two days. I couldn’t sit, couldn’t get up if I lay down, and at times, had trouble walking. Even going to the toilet and getting dressed was difficult. And on Wednesday, I came down with what felt like a cough and cold. Every sneeze and cough sent a wave of pain down my back.

Unable to walk much or stand for long, I couldn’t possibly teach. So I was at home all day. Most times, I was flat on my back, with an ice pack to numb the pain. I read a lot – Eugene Peterson, Luci Shaw, James Joyce, the bible. As my back got numb from the icing, I would doze off, wake up, grope for another book next to me, and read some more, then fall asleep again in the stillness of the afternoon.

Bedridden that I was, I didn’t have to worry about what time it was since I wasn’t about to go anywhere. I gave up checking the time, only glancing at the window to see how bright it was. When it got dark, I would get up and wait for the team to come back for dinner – a hot, delicious dinner prepared by Mummy.

And that was all I did for almost two full days. Get up. Limp. Sit. Wait for people to bring me food. Sleep. Read. Cringe. Eat. Feel sorry for myself. Get up. Change my ice pack. Limp. Lie down. Read. Sleep. Eat again. Sleep.

By Thursday morning, I was feeling very lousy. The cough was worse, and I realized I couldn’t quite walk, only waddle, with my feet apart. Dejected and feeling like a complete invalid, I shuffled into my room and decided to spend time with God, and pray for my team. I listened to a Bill Johnson podcast that Dawn gave me. It was titled, “Being an offering.”

In it, Bill Johnson shared about a life-changing encounter where God’s power came over him at 3 in the morning. He said he felt like electricity was surging through his body, and he lost control of his body from the neck down and could not stop shaking violently.

It was in that instant that God was asking him, without words, if he was still willing to be completely filled by God and used by Him, even if it meant losing control over his life and body.

When the podcast ended, I had a real desire to kneel and pray. In fact, I saw myself kneeling, right there in my room, on the mat that I was lying on. But I knew too that the pain would kill me. Just the motion of flipping over, then getting onto my knees, with my back arched sounded impossible in my state. Still, the picture didn’t go away, and the desire to kneel grew stronger. “Heck it. I’m going to kneel anyway.”

And in one clean motion, I turned over and knelt down, knees to my chest and forehead on the ground. There was no pain. In that instant, I knew God had just healed me. I prayed. It was one of those prayers in which you don’t remember what you were saying, but you know you prayed.

At some point in that state of shock and joy, as I was on my knees, I messaged Dawn to say that I had just been healed, and I was praying for her back injury too.

Then I stood up. I mean, I stood right up. No pain. I walked out of my room. There was some pain, but nothing compared to what it was just an hour ago. 

The next few minutes were a happy blur. 

I blabbered to my mom saying, "I think I'm ok now!”

I walked back to my room, knelt down again, and there was no pain. And I prayed some more.

I heard Dawn come back. I got up, again, there was no pain. I walked out. No pain.

I asked, “Did you get my message?”

“Ya, what happened?”

“I don’t know.” I walked away, wiping the tears away.

I don’t remember what else I said after that, except that I was pacing all over and said I was praying for her back pain too. She looked at me and said, “Ya what are you doing? I feel this heat on my back.”

I went straight back into my room to pray some more.

That was Thursday morning. It’s early Sunday morning now. Between then and now, apart from relatively pain-free walking and sitting, I’ve taught two classes and even managed a secret, happy hop in my room and a few paces of running. I hope to be jogging again very, very soon (but no leaping just yet!)

If I had to find a word to describe this whole experience, it would be…nourished. Before I was healed, despite the pain, I felt…strangely nourished by being so still and alone. There was nowhere to go, nothing to do, but rest, read, think, pray, sleep, eat. My inability to move physically somehow caused me to stop squirming and struggling in the spiritual too. It was as if God had closed in on me, and wrapped a cocoon of rest tightly around me.

Now that I am mobile again, I hope to remain in that place of stillness and rest, and walk and sit and read and write and teach out of being deeply nourished. Since the healing, I have had a strange impulse to cling on to God with all my limbs and not let go...