Rise, Take Up Your Bed, and Walk

     If you get sick, how do you know when you're better?  How do you tell healing has come?  Nobody else will announce it.  They certainly can't tell if we can't tell ourselves.
      One friend, a year or so after her husband died, recognized healing (and her new husband-to-be) when she woke up one morning and realized that she had not cried once the day before.  Another recognized healing as a profound feeling of gratitude for the blessings around him.  A third friend noticed that she had not heard outbursts or arguments for a while, and attributed this to healing within the family and among the family members.
      The truth is, healing our minds and hearts is a slow process, just like healing a wound or an injury.  Day by day, the bone grows a little stronger, the skin a little more whole, the joint a little less stiff, and we hardly notice.  We still think of ourselves as broken, wounded, or crippled.  As one friend is fond of telling me, he is like braces on teeth: He is going to support, push, and pull, and little by little, things will straighten out.  He's right, of course.
     So the question becomes, when do we *recognize* the transition?
     In physical healing, there is generally a leap-of-faith moment, perhaps supported by x-rays or a retainer, perhaps not, where we give up that external support.  The bandage falls off and we don't replace it.  One by one the stitches are snipped and removed.  The crutches are set aside.  The braces come off the legs or teeth and we see that change has really happened.
     It's much easier, though, to see the supports physically removed by a doctor or dentist and be told, "You are well."  The question still remains.  Who will remove the stitches from our broken hearts, the cast from our broken spirits, the braces from our frail egos, or the crutches from our daily walk?  Who will pronounce to us that we are all better now, and send us on our way?
     For those who have never known life without that pain or wound, the puzzle is even more complex.  How will we recognize when we've arrived if we've never been there before, and perhaps we don't even know where we're going?  How will we find the courage to give up what we have only known as necessary to survive?
      I do not have an answer.  I can see before and after, but I do not know how I got there or when I arrived.  That said, I can offer a little hard-earned wisdom.
     First, we are human, and even in those who would welcome death, there is still some instinct of self-preservation or pain-avoidance.  We will not give up our security and protection until we are confident we don't need it.  Safety is an absolute prerequisite for the recognition of growth or healing.
     Second, we can't identify a moment when the gradual change happened.  Were we aware in one moment that our bone was broken, and in the next it was mended?  Could we see that our wound was open one moment and closed the next?  Did we watch as our teeth were crooked when we walked into the dentist and straight when we walked out?  And even if we *could* observe these concrete, physical changes, what of the intangible changes to mind and spirit?
     Third, that recognition always comes after-the-fact.  We never watch the moment of healing (if there even is one), we only recognize that it has already occurred.  We don't know when the bone is mended, but the doctor assures us that it has happened, and feeling that assurance, that safety, we step out in faith that the leg will hold us up.  My friend, safe from condemnation, confident of her husband's place with God, supported by those around her, recognized the gift of joy and said yes to her new husband's proposal.  Another found himself talking freely with people one day and realized that he was no longer afraid.  Yet another, after years of depression following abuse as a child, found herself comfortable among friends, and recognized that the intense shame no longer stood in her way, perhaps even that she was no longer ashamed at all.  Simply, the gift had been given, and we merely recognized that it had arrived.
     Why, then, do so many expect each person to have a defining moment of decision, of commitment to faith?  We do not consciously and deliberately set our bodies or our spirits to right.  If we take the cast off our leg, we are not in that moment healing it.  God heals, and we have only to give thanks.
     Likewise, God gives faith, heals our souls, and draws us to himself.  It is not until that process is already complete that we can claim that faith, step out in that faith.
     We don't pray the "sinner's prayer" to become a believer.  We don't choose to become Christians any more than we choose to mend our broken bones.  If we have faith to pray that prayer, we already believe.  Faith is something God does *in* us.  The best we can do is to acknowledge what has already occurred.
     What then of evangelism?  If God creates faith, who needs evangelists?  We might as well ask, "If doctors mend our bodies or our bones mend themselves, who needs a cast or crutches?"  But just as doctors work through means, so God works through means.  God honors and loves his creation by engaging it, by including it in his plans, by working through it, even by becoming a part of it.  We should no more confuse any choice or decision on our part with God's action in giving us faith than we would credit our willingness to flash our new smile with straightening our teeth.
     So what *can* we do?  As with healing bodies and our spirits, we can provide support, create safety in which to take first steps, and joyfully acknowledge when healing and faith have taken place.
     And how will we know when this has happened?  Nobody else will announce it.  We must have that leap-of-faith moment when we throw away the crutches of our excuses, take up our bed, and start walking.