On Faith

A couple of days ago I was pretty sick--so sick that I considered going to the ER, since (as usual, whenever I really need him) it was the weekend, and my doctor doesn't sit around waiting for people to show up on Saturday afternoon. I'm not sure why. I bet it would be his most profitable day.

It started a week earlier with a bad cold, which kept getting worse. By Saturday, I was certain I had fluid in my lungs, which sort of concerned me, because I'm pretty sure that indicates pneumonia. I got the stethoscope out and listened to my breathing. Lower left lung sounded like it had gravel in it. I also had a fever, and couldn't stop coughing. All the main symptoms of pneumonia, as it turns out. If not, it was certainly bronchitis. My chest hurt, bad, and I was having a little trouble breathing.

I thought about what to do. I felt bad, but as long as I stayed lying down, it wasn't too bad. Maybe I could just wait until Monday and then go in. Going to the ER is something I don't really advocate for myself unless I'm so sick I have to be taken there unconscious, by an ambulance. Or if a bone is protruding from my skin.

I asked daltonboy if he'd give me a blessing, because I knew this was a time that I needed to exercise faith. Here's the catch: I didn't really want to be healed. At least not right away. We could get in to how messed up that was, but the bottom line was that sometimes I feel like I go to the doctor a lot--and it's usually a premature move. He's really nice about it, but most of the time I feel like he's thinking I'm a pathetic hypochondriac. I knew for a fact something was really wrong with me this time, and it would have been nice to have him confirm that for a change, instead of trying (again) to prescribe antidepressants. But this blessing wasn't going to be about my mental illness, so I kept all that to myself.

I thought it over, and realized that as cool as it would be to show up at the doctor's office and have him freak out and admit me to the hospital on Monday morning, it would be cooler if I could attend my church meetings on Sunday. I needed those meetings. I'd studied hard during the week, and had things to contribute to my classes. I had things to learn from other people. Most of all, I needed the opportunity to take the sacrament and renew my covenants. Really, it was more important for me to be there than to satisfy my pride with the doctor. Also, daltonboy really needed me to give him a haircut.

Asking for a blessing was the right thing to do. But blessings don't really work without faith, right? And faith is "the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen." If I didn't hope to be healed, would it be a waste of time? Would I be mocking God?

We called a friend, who shortly arrived to help daltonboy administer the blessing. He annointed me with consecrated oil, they laid their hands on my head, and daltonboy proceeded to pronounce a blessing. He told me that my body would heal itself. "Rats," I thought. And then he told me that I would be healed according to my faith. "Hmm."

I went back to bed after that. I did not give DB a haircut. My breathing was still shallow, and I was still coughing, but I slept all night. When I woke up in the morning, I felt different. No fever, for one thing. The stethoscope confirmed that the fluid was gone. My lungs were completely clear. And I felt pretty much great. One minor, dry coughing spell after waking, and that was it. I got up, went to church, did not sing with the choir, and had a great time. I took notes. I learned stuff. I renewed my covenants. I spent the whole day upright. Made dinner, and even baked a batch of cookies for dessert. A miracle! (Not the cookies--the healing.)

And here's what I realized: faith and hope aren't about what I want. Sure, those things get mixed up together a lot of the time, especially with blessings for the sick, because sane people actually want to be healed when they ask. But faith and hope are about more than that. Faith is about believing and hoping that God lives, and that He knows and loves me. That He can show His power through someone who has been ordained with authority to act for Him on Earth. For me, it's about believing that He will act in a way that's best for me, even if I don't know what that is. Even if what I want on the surface covers up what I really want deep down.

Another thing: what if the miracle wasn't for me? I didn't have any doubt that God could heal me if He wanted to. But what if it was for Lola, who is still learning about Him, and needs to see faith exercised and rewarded? Or for someone at church, who asked what I was doing out of bed, and needed to hear my story? Or what if it was for you? I don't know why it happened, but I know I was healed, and I know God did it. I'm glad He loves His children, and I'm grateful He gave us the priesthood.

After a few more years of working on wanting what God wants, when He's ready He'll make me not crazy. I know it will happen, because it turns out I have some faith, but it turns out there are still untapped depths that I need to get to. I ran into my friend at church--the one who came over and helped DB administer the blessing. I said, "Hey! I was miraculously healed!" I thought he'd be amazed and humbled. He shot back, "Oh yeah? Then how come daltonboy still has long hair?"