It IS Well

I used to wonder how long an encounter with the divine would sustain someone. I thought of Isaiah and the burning coal that touched his lips. How long did he remember that pain? Did the memory last as long as the memory of the pain of childbirth? Was it brought up more as a story to inspire awe or garner guilt? Or, did that pain linger like the constant ache of arthritis in a joint? Did the pain serve as a constant reminder of the holiness of our God?
Then, I think of Elijah. I understand him so well. One minute he was the strongest of all the prophets. He talked and God listened. The next moment he’s running, terrified of a woman. It seems that he forgot the encounters with God as soon as they happened.
What of Mary? The word says she treasured these things in her heart. Did she draw on the vision of the angel on those days when the world was just too much? Did she take a moment in the corner of her house to remember holding the baby Jesus and find peace in that memory?
And what of my own encounters with the divine? How long do I remember? After the incident, I shoved all memories of the divine Father into a little space in the back of mind. I started stuffing everything I could into that little pocket back there. The piles of trash stuffed into that space started to fill the soft inner parts of me with rocks. I used those rocks to build walls.
Time and circumstance allowed me to quit talking to God. The enemy used that separation to lead me down dark paths. I wanted so badly to rekindle that spark of power I had felt when the spirit was alive in me. I thought I could find it in the “supernatural”.
In college, I took classes where I learned that the poor and powerless would turn to witchcraft in order to gain control over an uncontrollable world. All around me the world would spin so far out of control and I knew there should be order. Philosophy classes filled my mind with wonderful connections. Connections that proved beyond any doubt that the bible and its stories were myths that had counter parts in all cultures. Oh I felt superior in my knowledge. This world was mine. I could control the elements. My will could be rationally imposed on the cosmos. I, as a human, was god!
I still see the vague outlines of His hand on my life. As I tried to cross lines, an overwhelming presence would tell me to stop. Somewhere deep inside I knew not to cross that line. From time to time, I would remember a bit of the vision from the library window. I would remember that I had a job. From time to time, my heart would leap in response to a hymn playing on tv. From time to time but little more.
These were the cold dark days. Days of driving the streets of Boise wrapped in a blanket of depression. Days of trying to sing to my baby but not having the strength to put words to music. Days of fear because the man I married refused to buy heating oil and it was Boise with a foot of snow on the ground. Days of longing as I drove by the softly lit churches. Days of failure after failure.
I’ve told the story before of my deliverance. I had lost my job and desperately sought another teaching position. In pure desperation, I applied at a Pentecostal private school. I don’t know why they even interviewed me but I made it to the third round. I had to go to the preacher’s office. I quickly realized he wouldn’t hire me. But then, he prayed over me. That touch I hadn’t felt in years tapped my heart. A touch of life and of spirit awakened my dead soul. But I am a hard headed woman and I tried hard to shut it down.
God said it was time to come home.
I came home and began my great journey on 3211. 3211 became the metaphor for my reunion with the Savior. During that reunion, the memory of the divine came back full of life and of joy. I was healed. I was blessed. I learned “It Is Well”.