So tell me what you want what you really really want? This is one of the main choruses from a song by a British band, called the Spice Girls. It rings in my head, like a taunting line. I wanted healing for my son of course.
When my first son was born, he had terrible food allergies that caused his cheeks to look like he had been scratched by a cat. Actually more like he had been scratched by a cat several times in the shape of whiskers.
When my second son was born, we got the call that his newborn screen came back with a genetic marker for Cystic Fibrosis. Well surely this must be a mistake I thought. God wouldn’t allow this. I was sure of that. Very sure.
But yes, indeed it was true. The reality sunk in after a very long first visit to a local pulmonary clinic in Ft. Worth Texas in which we were educated at length about how the genes my son had been born with would cause him many problems and many of them life threatening if not life shortening. Is that a word? shortening? Hmmm. Not sure, anyhow, that is the absolute truth.
Riding home from the clinic that first day is a blur to me now. What I do recall is climbing into my bed in the middle of the afternoon with a grief so deep I didn’t know how I would get out of bed again. I just wanted to throw the covers over my head and call it a day. No, call it a week. No, a month. No, a year.
As I write this blog, it has been almost 8 years since that very day we went to the clinic for our first time. There would be many clinic visits after that and many long nights of concern and worry. What would this disease mean for my son? What would it mean for me as a Mom? What would it mean for my whole family as we lived from day to day?
If you are reading this and wondering the same thing for yourself or a loved one trust me I get it. It brings tears to my eyes thinking about the seriousness of this awful disease. The suffering is real and many times brings death. How could I reconcile this with my faith in God? I had to believe that He had healing for my son. There was no other choice. Well I suppose there were other choices, but you know what I mean. Go big or go home. Home to Jesus was not where I was willing to let my little boy go willingly. And this is where our story begins. With a whole lot of prayer and a whole lot of the Word being spoken over my son as an infant in my arms.
How did I believe? For me it honestly was not that hard. Reason being, several years before, three to be exact the Lord had radically healed me from Fibromyalgia. The faith that this gave me was beyond anything else I could have asked for. Shoot, I ended that sentence in a preposition. Oh well, my mother’s dead.
If that last sentence struck you as being well, very strange and very crass, please read my first book: Second Chances: A journey of recovery from Dissociative Identity Disorder. Then it will make more sense to you. I don’t think I could begin to explain it here, so I won’t.
Where was I? I digress. A lot. Then I don’t know where I should start again. That is part of the Dissociative Identity Disorder which is now almost healed. Or should I say fully recovered. Healing is instant, recovery is a process. It has been much the same for my son with the Cystic Fibrosis. A recovery that has taken eight years.
Hmmmm, where do I begin? With prayer I suppose. Yes definitely prayer. Throughout my son’s recovery process I learned to pray according to Matthew 18:18. The verse goes something like this, please excuse my paraphrasing. Whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven. In another version it reads similar but using the key word, forbid.
I assure you and most solemnly say to you, whatever you bind [forbid, declare to be improper and unlawful] on earth [a]shall have [already] been bound in heaven, and whatever you loose [permit, declare lawful] on earth [b]shall have [already] been loosed in heaven. Matthew 18:18 Amplified translation.
This is the pattern of prayer that first helped me rid my son of a food texture sensitivity that wouldn’t quit. But after praying to loose off the sensitivity and bind him to a desire to eat all things, well, he did. Nothing short of a miracle. We have seen many small miracles. Can a miracle be small? Well in comparison to the miracle that I witnessed the month of my son’s seventh birthday, well I would say a resounding yes. And amen if I dare. Does that offend you? I’m o.k. with that if it does.
Will you keep reading please, anyways? Even if you feel offended while reading pages of this blog, will you please promise me you will keep reading? I care what you think, but I don’t care. What I mean by that is that I will share my story no matter who does not believe it because even if I win over the soul of one individual it will have been worth it. What would be worth it you ask? My son having Cystic Fibrosis and now being able to live without pharmaceuticals and without daily inhalation treatments.
You read that right and I did not stutter nor am I lying. Hopefully that covered all the slanderous options that some of you are thinking as you read this. It’s o.k. I am not offended.
Writing this blog and sharing it with the world will not be easy, or will it? No, I don’t think it will be easy, that is because I have already witnessed the ugly, sometimes painful responses to telling my son’s story on a lovely vehicle called Facebook. In fact, you may have already read some of my earlier posts. I stand by them. And I encourage you to do your very best not to let offense get the best of you.
If you are still reading this, good for you. Let’s get started shall we? Hmmmmmm, where do I begin? Oh yeah, I already said that, didn’t I. Sorry, but this is how it goes when you have Dissociative Identity Disorder. But I digress. That is how this disorder manifests itself as well. Digression. Is that even a word? I hope so. Anyhoo, let’s get started, shall we?
To be continued…