This was inspired by a piece I came across, about Elijah in the desert. You can read it
here.
In my five years of being a rededicated Christian, and especially in the last couple years, I was surrounded by the miraculous. And it was what I needed at the time. It got me out of the rut of vanilla Christianity that I grew up with. I learned that being moved by the Spirit doesn't necessarily have to be sombre and serious and tears streaming down everyone's faces. It actually means laughing until your sides hurt and your eyes water and you look totally wasted because Holy Spirit has grabbed a hold of you and won't let go. Even now, during the rare times when I worship, this is still how it ends up being, no matter how far and few between those times are.
I discovered a new side of the Almighty. And His name was Joy. I saw limbs grow out (I had my own leg grow out so both legs were equal length, and my lower back pain disappeared). I saw a man walk out of a wheelchair. I experienced heavenly encounters and discovered my gifting (words of knowledge). I learned about the prophetic. And I saw people declare things in the name of the Lord and it would happen instantly. But when I did it, nothing happened. I saw my body in pain, and I prayed regularly for healing, and I sought out people who were gifted with that, and so many people prayed, and nothing happened. Nada. Nil. Zip. And I became frustrated. I didn't understand why God refused to heal me miraculously. I was surrounded by this culture of "God wants nothing but goodness for you, and will heal you if you ask for it" and "God doesn't want you to be in pain" but I wasn't seeing it manifest in my own life. Living in the culture of the miraculous was good, but it did its bout of damage. Why? Nobody wanted to admit that God sometimes heals with time. Yes, healing comes through the supernatural. But sometimes healing comes through the natural. He heals slowly. And sometimes that slow healing process is painful. And. That's. Okay.
Sometimes gifts are deactivated for a while. Sometimes passions are put on the back burner. I haven't given a word of knowledge or had a heavenly encounter for almost a year. My passion to fight sex trafficking has been given a rain check. Put on hold. This has actually been a positive thing. With my Jesus walking me through all my past hurts that I'd buried deep while growing up, there are some days where all I can do is get up and not be angry. I'm not in a place to be giving words or praying for victims of sex trafficking. I can't even pick up a Bible right now. But that's okay. I'm getting there.
Sometimes God refuses to heal in supernatural ways. He sees your pain and says, "no" to miracles. He says "no" to the easy button. Instead, He says "we're going to walk this through. It's going to be slow and painful, and it's going to be rough. It will test your faith and hope, and you will want to give up at times. In fact, you're going to downright hate it. But I promise you, you're going to make it. It's going to be okay." Iron sharpens iron. But let me tell you, it is in these times, you discover so much about yourself. It is in these times of desert, in these seasons of thorns and poison, that true beauty is found.
And you know what? Most of the time, the people who surround you with love and family won't understand it. They'll see the things you're struggling with and call it "a tactic from the enemy." They'll see it from the outside looking in. They'll try to pray it away, they'll see it as something evil and unnecessary, or even a "soul tie". But it's not. It's simply a part of the journey. It's a thorn stuck in your side. And it's ugly. But it's part of walking in the desert. Thorns are going to make their way into your skin as you trek through. And you're going to have to walk a ways with it before learning to pry it out.
I'm learning that life really is mainly lived in the desert, and that mountaintop experiences are far and few between. But God meets me here. Here, in the dust, and the dirt, and the thirst and hunger, and the inferiority, and my weakness. When I can no longer go on, He sustains me, and says, "Arise, and eat." He doesn't try to fix me, like so many other people are doing, He's not trying to force or push me out of this current spot, He's not trying to invalidate or erase how I feel in this exact moment. He just meets me where I'm at. He sits in the dirt with me. And He stays. Until I'm ready to get up and maybe take a feeble step forward, clinging tightly to His hand. He never lets go. He is patient. And He is never ending love and grace.
