Here for the Comments--My Response to the Response to My Food Journey Miracle Post

My recent post about my struggle with food received an overwhelming response. Not all of it positive.

I posted my story in the mast cell groups on Facebook. While most who took the time to read were encouraged and/or happy for me, some just weren't.

I don't blame them. Not at all.

Mastocytosis/Mast Cell Activation Disease affects every aspect of human life. There's no square inch it doesn't attempt to claim. To make matters worse, there's no cure, so it's a disease without much hope. Outside of Jesus, anyway.

And let's face it, Jesus causes trouble wherever he goes.

I thought I'd address a few of the comments made, not because I believe the people who made them will read my response but because you may need to. Some of the questions the comments imply may resonate with you. 

And deep down, who doesn't love a good Facebook debate?

The Comments

"I can't believe I wasted time reading this"


As someone who has battled MCAD, this comment translated as, "I came here looking for real hope, and you gave me a fairy tale." Do you feel the despair in that? Doesn't your heart break just a little? Mine does. 

To this commenter, I would offer this quote by G. K. Chesterton: "Fairy tales are more than true; not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us dragons can be beaten." 

Jesus slayed the ultimate dragon when he gave his life on the cross. His life was for us, and His life makes us whole. In mind, body, and spirit. God is on mission to redeem it all.

"Unless you have a disease that can be cured by...science...we are all stuck with mast cell. Some people needs their meds to live. This gives false and dangerous hope to people. Unbelievable... I have seen firsthand what a supposed cure can do folks. Putting the word cure on an illness known to be incurable except for periods of remissions can and does cause false hope. Wording is everything. There was no disclaimer...only stating cure. If anyone and I include myself in this.. Wants to say what is helping them as far as diet, supplements Et al then cool, but, unless it has been medically verified as a cure with accompanying information this becomes another blog with the supposed miracle cure. As a scientist, I aware people for reasons still poorly understood can heal. Hope is good. Proclaiming you have a cure without science not so much"


I agree--"wording is everything"--though even the best of us get it wrong from time to time. But the careful reader will notice I never used the word "cure" in my story. Rather, I spoke of healing. Why? Because I want to be clear. While medication, diet, and lifestyle modifications helped, these things did not end my disease. Jesus did. He healed me.


"I'd like to give my view on this as an atheist (and I know a lot of you are already placing labels on me for using that word, but please do not prejudge). I do not believe in prayer or a supreme deity that has the ability to heal us....but...I do believe that prayer can certainly be viewed as a form of meditation and there has been verifiable scientific study done on the effects that meditation has on the body. The most recent National Geographic has an article on the mind body effects of being in nature...scientific data. Including changes in EEG brain waves and drastic reduction in cortisol levels in the body. Doctors are actually writing "prescriptions" to patients to spend time in a natural setting for healing purposes. From my own personal experience, I can slow my heart rate purely by relaxing my body (I suffer from SVTs) and to some extent slow the progression of Mast Cell attacks the same way. This has been seen by multiple ER docs while I was hooked up to monitors. Then there is the whole epigenetics issue. Scientists have shown that these switches can flip back and forth quickly to stimuli and rapidly affect how our body reacts...or over reacts. She is not claiming to have been healed overnight. Nor did she do nothing but pray, she also modified her diet and tried other avenues of improving her symptoms. I believe placing this is the realm of religion is what is bothering some of you, but if you look deeper and place what she is saying in a more scientific framework, maybe you can understand better..."

I appreciate this person for coming to my defense. Truly. She was kind when others were not. Elsewhere, she chastened those who left--in her words--"incredibly rude comments," some of which were deleted by the moderator. That being said, we aren't on the same page. 

2015 was a rough year for me. Though I continued to lean into the Lord day after day, my thoughts weren't always positive. During the weeks before I was healed, I struggled with restlessness, guilt, anxiety, and shame. I was tired, beaten to a pulp by this monster of a disease. My mind did not heal itself. Jesus healed me.

"I always have to wonder, if you are "cured", perhaps the diagnosis was incorrect all along."


I expected this one from the beginning. Before Jesus healed me, I told Brandon and my mom that when He did it, people will say I never had the disease. People tend to reject what they don't understand.

But MCAD isn't a diagnosis doctors toss to the masses like beads and candy at a Mardi Gras parade. It's difficult to obtain, which is why I had to travel all the way to Minnesota to get it. 

While I'm sure God had more purposes for my Mayo Clinic adventure than I can imagine, I understand at least two--Gastrocrom (a medication which allowed me to eat without absolute misery) and that diagnosis. He wants the world to know no disease is incurable when it comes to Him. 


"I'm happy for you Melissa. It seems like your body has calmed down by making nutritional changes. The jury is still out on mast cell disorders, so thinking positive is a good thing. My fear however would be that your overzealous claiming of healing might turn around and bite you - should you regress, relapse, get triggered again etc. I've seen many women in this group already speak of going years "ok" than not ok. For me, EVERYTIME I have gone there - psychologically, emotionally etc and believed "I'm completely better now!" Or "I'm finally coming out of this!" --WHAM. I've been sent back to reality. So I learned to be "cautiously optimistic" and to speak about "improvement" and not black or white declarations that only kick my ass later. Just my share/2 cents. Mast cell (so far) keeps me humble."


I totally understand the warning. I've been in remission. And yes--I thought I was better, then BAM! But this isn't remission. I'm healed. Thank you, Jesus! 

"I am taking this with a grain of salt..be careful with the word "cure." Glad you feel better..please be respectful of all here. Religion, politics cross over many people's comfort level. And seems to imply we are all in the same boat and all able to pray our way to wellness. That is simply not the case. And can lead to blaming those who don't believe to the degree you do or in your religion. Makes me squirm a bit...got my armor on for the replies with this one..I will remove this post if the comments become attacks or too controversial."


Writers, to publish is to give readers permission to quote things you never said and infer meaning you never intended. 

Now let's discuss the idea of "pray(ing) our way to wellness..."

If anyone could've earned healing by faith, prayer, or specialness, it would've been Jenny. 

Before her, I'd never encountered such indomitable faith. Oh, how she loved our Lord! How she sought Him! She was humble enough to seek prayer wherever she went. Churches, communities, and even Dodie Osteen prayed for her healing. Until a few weeks before her death, Jenny believed she would live. Not hoped. Believed.

The woman was so magnetic that people sense her pull in photos. People who didn't want to like her couldn't help themselves. Few love others like she did. She was often the sickest person in the waiting room at MD Anderson, yet she stopped and prayed for people every visit. People who got to live. Before she let hospice put her into an induced coma, she prayed for and blessed everyone at her bedside. She sent me a goodbye text telling me how much she loved me. Jenny went out thinking of and serving others.

If we could achieve our own wellness, Jenny would've been here to celebrate her daughter's fourth birthday four days ago. But after two years of intense suffering, she died. 

Did I survive because I'm so much better than her? Because my faith is stronger? Absolutely not. And if my prayers achieved all that, Jenny would still be here.

This commenter didn't need her armor. She got no argument from me. 

Healing can't be earned. It can only be received.

"I am glad you are doing better, but to claim that God healed you leaves a lot of Christian people who are dealing with the same thing out. I find it distasteful that God would pick and choose you and leave everyone else to suffer. I think there are are too many variables to leave it to "God fixing everything".... Could have been shots finally registered in your system after all that time, anxiety dying down after postpartum time frames end, allowing you belly time to heal after a severe infection.... Ect.... Too many variables to leave it at "God chose to heal me over everyone else."


This commenter doesn't understand my God. And frankly, I don't either.

Human inclination is to fear what we can't control and to dismiss what we don't understand. 

We can't control God, nor can we understand him. So we fear and dismiss him. We explain him away.

And guess what--I've done it, too. 

I have no idea why I lived and Jenny died. I have no idea why some are healed and others suffer all their lives. But that doesn't mean God didn't heal me. And it doesn't mean He doesn't want to heal others. 

Truth be told, these thoughts aren't all that unrelated to some of my own, which have led to questions. Lots and lots of questions:

1. Did Jesus ever turn anyone away in the gospels? Did He ever say, "No, I'm not going to heal you. It's my will for you to be sick. Your illness brings me glory?"
2. Does illness bring glory to God? OR is it possible to suffer with something that doesn't glorify God in such a way that God is glorified anyway? Isn't that kind of the spirit of Romans 8:37?
3. Does God send illness? Is sickness of God? Or does the enemy send sickness and then God uses it for His own purposes with the intention of drawing us to Himself and with a heart to deliver us from it and all lesser loves? 
4. Does God want us to cuddle our sickness and hold onto suffering because He worked it for good in our lives? Do we need sickness to maintain our sanctification? Should we? Or do we just need Jesus? 
5. Is sickness the best way to experience the nearness of God? If so, what does that say about the saints in the Bible? They weren't sick. Are sickness and pain the only ways to cultivate humility and dependence?
6. Can we best fulfill the Great Commission when we ourselves are sick?
7. If it was God's will for people to be sick, wouldn't Jesus have been going against God's will by healing them? Wouldn't we be going against God's will every time we prayed for healing?
8. In Scripture, Jesus doesn't only heal believers. Many he healed weren't believers when he healed them. Some left him, healing in hand, without a thank you. So what does it mean that He didn't do many mighty works in Nazareth because of their unbelief (Matt. 13:58; Mark 6:5,6)? What role does faith play?
9. The mission stated over and over again in the Gospels is to preach the gospel and heal the sick. Preach the gospel and heal the sick. Preach the gospel and heal the sick. When Jesus sent out the twelve, he told them, "Heal the sick, cleanse the lepers, raise the dead, cast out demons. Freely you have received, freely give" (Matt. 10:8). This doesn't sound like a pick and choose kind of God. So what's the deal?
10. Could the gap between what we see in Scripture and our experience be our fault? As in the fault of the Church? If so, what does this say about our will versus God's will? If not, does the God who is the same yesterday, today, and forever carry out his will differently now than he did in the first century?

In Summary:

Notice I have all these fabulous questions and no easy answers. I can't offer a satisfactory response to any of them because God is mystery. But here's what I make of my experience with the information I have at this time:

God did not send my sickness. Neither did He waste it. God used my physical sickness to rescue me from sickness of mind, body, and spirit. My sickness was the fastest, most efficient way for God to do this and make me usable. My sickness did not glorify God; I glorified God by leaning into Him through it. God never smiled at my pain; He smiled at what I did with it.

The enemy sent my illness and used it to try and kill me. Again and again and again. He did this because I'm dangerous. He failed because God didn't allow it. God is sovereign.

And yet other dangerous, usable people die. I don't know what this means. But I do know God is sovereign. He is the head of all principality and power (Col. 2:10). Not a moment of this storm was outside of his perfect control, and his character and attributes do not change with circumstance.

God healed me. God used prayer to heal me. My healing would not have happened outside of persistent, fervent, expectant prayer. My prayers. Prayers of family, friends, and elders. The prayers of many.

These prayers kept me alive, kept me close to Jesus, and helped me navigate the path laid out for me. The path led me to a group of people who operate in the Spirit of God. They saw my plight, had compassion, and rescued me through more fervent prayer. They had faith for me when I didn't have it for myself. Enough faith for me to expect something to happen.

My healing was intrinsically tied to deliverance, which was brought about in a personal prayer session (Sozo), a ministry of the group mentioned above.

My healing glorified God. My liberation unleashed more of the Holy Spirit into the world. Now whole and operating in the power of the Holy Spirit, I can better fulfill the mission--preach the gospel, heal the sick and brokenhearted, proclaim liberty to the captives, help the blind to see, liberate the oppressed, cast out demons, raise the dead. Make disciples. Make disciple-making disciples. 

I'm called to give as freely as it has been given to me. Which, you gotta admit, has been pretty freely, so I best be serious about this, yo. 

The miraculous bolsters faith in the miraculous. My prayers are not what they once were because I now believe in the impossible. I ask for impossible things. I believe for impossible things. The impossible has become my new normal.

I know that not everyone I pray for will be healed and delivered, but what do I lose by praying? What do I lose? Time? Energy? Who cares? I get God! Even when the miracle doesn't come. And now that I know it might, by the grace of God I'll never stop asking.

I want to do this thing in such a way that if I'm wrong I'll be the most pitiful fool who ever walked the earth and when I see my Jesus face to face I'll have nothing to regret. And who knows? Maybe one day I'll get to see God do something REALLY cool like raise somebody from the dead!


So yeah...that's where I stand. At the moment, anyway.

Now that I've closed my most recent Facebook debate, let a new one begin. And in the spirit of full disclosure, if you comment, especially if that comment is nasty or despondent, you'll be put on a list and prayed for. You've been warned.

Christmas Spirit

 

Original image via Flickr Creative Commons via Doctor Popular

Some rights reserved.

Every year, I struggle to catch what they call "the Christmas spirit." I haven't had an easy time of it. Food restriction, isolation, and an utter lack of energy seem out of place in the season. As we understand it, anyway.

This year, it's easier. I'm savoring every victory, every step forward, the last melted drippings at the bottom of my ice cream bowl. And I do it without apology.

In a world in which darkness seems to win far too often, we should celebrate every ray of light, wherever it shines.

And yet, I sense how out of step I am with so many in my circle.

You don't live in a war zone four years and go blind to the devastation around you the moment a cease fire is declared in your corner of the world.

My prayers go to my new friend Talena, who spends her first holiday season without her youngest son.

To my mentor, Dixie Perry, and her family who relive the trauma of two years ago. They spent that Christmas in a sterile hospital far away from home waiting for healing that didn't come.

To my Jenny's family, who celebrate birthdays and holidays with a gaping hole in their midst.

To friends of my parents who lost their son to suicide last Christmas.

To my youth minister's family who'll spend their first Christmas without their dad/husband/son/brother/cousin.

To the grandmother raising her two young grandkids because living became too great a burden for their mom to bear.

To my cousin who still hasn't recovered from the dangerous infection inside her skull nor from the never-ending stack of brain surgery bills.

To sick parents of new friends hoping for another Christmas with their families.

To my sick friends still waiting for healing.

To those reeling from the massacres in Paris and San Bernadino.

It's hard to sing about peace on earth with all this blood on the ground.

Where do we fit in a world singing about jingle bells, chestnuts roasting on an open fire, and being home for Christmas when the Home we long for seems so far away?

Maybe with the shepherds--humble, lonely, marginalized. Or maybe with the women in Jesus's lineage--Gentiles, sexual deviants, misfits.

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

The promise is yours when you throw yourself into the arms of Jesus. 

For some of us, it's worse than simply not relating to the culture of holiday commercials. We can't breathe for the grief pounding over us in wave after wave after wave.

Our Christmas dramas and sermons skip Herod's slaughter of the young children in Matthew 2. Who wants to think of dead babies at Christmas? But it's there, reminding us that Christ's coming isn't only for singing angels but for heartbroken mothers, too. 

Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.

Maybe tragedy lies on the outskirts of your experience. You aren't weeping. You aren't dancing. You're tired. You want to stop all the stuff and rest a while.

Well, there's Mary.

 

All this activity bustles around her. A parade of dirty shepherds. Rumors of scandal. Majestic yet ominous prophecies at the temple. That mysterious star, lighting up the night sky above Bethlehem. The exhausting work of motherhood. Displacement from home and family. Loneliness. Responsibility. That new mama tangle of ecstasy and trepidation.

Instead of giving herself to the whirlwind, she silences her soul before the Creator in her arms--"But Mary kept all these things and pondered them in her heart" (Luke 2:19).

Blessed are the pure in heart for they shall see God.

Year after year, I elbow my way through the huddle of excited shepherds and wealthy magi to gaze at my Lord Jesus by Mary's side. Whether I'm pondering the sword piercing my soul or the glory of God wrapped in human flesh, I feel welcome to kneel with her at the manger. To ruminate on things too weighty to say out loud.

But as my mentor points out, the real hope is that the manger is empty. As is the tomb.

Jesus grew up. He lived the life we should've lived, died the death we should've died, and rose from the grave so we can hum tidings of comfort and joy in this war-torn world.

The Christmas spirit isn't about presents and lights and Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer. It's about God and sinners reconciled.

It's about a King who didst leave His throne and kingly crown when He came to earth for me. A King, who for my sake became poor that through His poverty I might be rich (2 Cor. 8:9). A King willing to sit with me in the ash heap and lift me out in His good time (Psalm 113:7).

Ponder that.

It's okay to mourn this holiday season, but be brave enough to sing "joy to the world" in the middle of a sleepless night.

It's good to shout "glory to God in the highest," but don't be afraid to weep with those who weep.

In our dark streets shineth the Everlasting Light. He is our Living Hope, who secured for us an inheritance incorruptible and undefiled that does not fade.

Live the Christian paradox this Christmas.
Without apology.
Sorrowful, yet always rejoicing.
Until Christ comes again, that's the Christmas spirit. 

Ann Voskamp released this "Advent Lament" last year. It blessed me then; it blesses me now:

How can I pray for you this Christmas? Leave your request in the comments below. Or if you're celebrating an extra bowl of ice cream and need a dancing partner, I'm there. It will be my joy to pray and weep and celebrate with you as I cook and clean and ponder in the days ahead.

Mrs. Hall

I first learned of Mrs. Hall and her impact upon my life four years ago at a women's retreat. I remember the lighting of the room, where I sat, the baby bucking in my womb, and that perpetual out-of-breath sensation pregnant women hold so dear as Dixie Perry, my friend and mentor, told her story.

Mrs. Hall was a friend to Dixie's mother, Johnie, after she'd lost two young sons. A person who befriends someone lost in grief of that depth is, as Johnie said, "one of God's special people." Mrs. Hall didn't look too special. In fact, she scared lots of people away with her somber dress. But she was one of those rare individuals who gives the most generous gifts of all--time and attention--a legacy she passed on to Johnie who later passed it on to Dixie.

Dixie is my Mrs. Hall. She is definitely "one of God's special people." God is always using her somewhere, some way, with someone. Still, she makes time for me. And when I'm with her, she's all there, which is one reason our times together are always memorable. Dixie, in turn, inspires me to be a Mrs. Hall to someone else.

For four years, this oddball saint has lived, breathed, and left her heel prints all over my imagination. The weekend after I finished the second draft of my novel, my little family made the trip to Baton Rouge to see Dixie and her sweet husband Robert. On our last evening together, I asked to hear again the story of Mrs. Hall. As I listened, tainting Johnie's crock with the worst cobbler I've ever made, I knew I had to immortalize her with my pen.

Allow me to introduce you to someone whose faith continues to reverberate in the world more than 80 years later.

In honor of the woman "who prayed the stars out of the sky," the woman she loved through loss and despair, and my own Mrs. Hall, Dixie Perry:

Mrs. Hall

by Melissa A. Keaster

Curled over the counter, Johnie panted around the wrenching in her stomach. It overwhelmed at the most unexpected times, triggered by the oddest things. Like the eggs staring up from the crock—a pair of bulbous, golden eyes. Raw flour powdered the counter where her hands had shaken. Tears fell into the sifter, forming tiny crater lakes in the soft mound. Wiping the perspiration from her brow, her gaze wandered to the shaft of sunlight warming the empty corner of the farmhouse where the floor was scuffed raw by toy cars and wooden trains

Dick would be hungry soon, and looking for the cup towel waving from the clothesline. But there would be no cake. Not until she could breathe. 

Abandoning the task, she stumbled down the hall to her bedside and collapsed on her knees. Her hands clutched the cotton sheets as she wept. When words wouldn’t come, she reached for song, but melody strangled in her throat, hot and thick with anguish. She crawled to the piano bench, the perch from which she played and sang and so often found solace. But her hands trembled upon the keys, and no Aaron or Hur was there to steady them. Her God accepted hymns of sighs and sobs, but she couldn’t offer those. Not today. Her grief was her own.   

The screen door squeaked open and clapped shut. Boots shuffled into the kitchen and paused. Johnie pushed her brow away from the cool wood of the piano, unsure of how long she’d sat there idle, and rose to fetch Dick’s milk. 

Three ice cubes plunked into the glass. She slid it across the counter, unable to meet his eyes. “It’s all I have today.”
  
Arms damp with sweat, smelling of grass, and flecked with black earth wound around her. “You gotta come through this somehow, Hon. For the ones we got.” A large, calloused hand rubbed circles on her back. 

“Sorry about the cake.”

           
“I don’t care about the cake.” Dick sipped his milk, studying her over the rim of his glass. With a sigh, he cocked his head. “Why don’t you call Mrs. Hall?”

Johnie squinted up at him, wiping tears. “Mrs. Hall?” What had made him think of her?

She’d summoned the nerve to introduce herself at the tent revival last week and only because Mr. Hall hadn’t come. The man had a reputation. While the rest of the community had stood aloof and wary, something about the tall, austere woman dressed in dreary hues from collar to toe beckoned Johnie. She’d liked Mrs. Hall in an instant. The old woman’s eyes echoed her own pain, though she imagined it was of a different kind, and yet there was a light in them Johnie hungered for. A light to be warmed by. Wistful fists clenched air. The prospect of Mr. Hall was too daunting.

           
Dick rubbed his sunburned neck. “Why don’t you call? If he’s not there, I’ll drive you.”
“But the supper—”

“Biscuits will suit.”

“The boys—”

“Will be fine without me for a spell.”

             
With a hesitant nod, Johnie straightened, and moved to the telephone. Gripping the receiver in one hand, she worked the crank with the other. A stern voice answered. “Operator.”

             
Despite the time she’d had to prepare, Johnie scrambled for what to say. “Mrs. Hall? This is Johnie Deal. From down the way. May I…may I call on you?”

             
A wave of static buzzed in the receiver. “Yes. If you come now.” 
No questions. No comments. Just an invitation.

“I’ll be right over.” Hope flickered as Johnie returned the phone to its hook. 
 She turned to Dick. “Let’s go.”

Johnie tugged off her apron, and hung it on the peg by the refrigerator. The Texas heat slapped her face when she stepped outside, and dried the tears on her cheeks. The green GMC was warm enough to bake a pie. A gauzy layer of cotton did little to protect her bottom, and she winced as it touched the leather seat. A short, jolting ride down the hill brought them to her three surviving sons. They peered at her through the window, probably wondering about their cake. After offering them a weak smile, she focused on an old oak in the distance as Dick delivered his instructions.

Why did she pine when she’d been given so much? Why couldn’t she overcome the sadness as Dick wished she would? To forget would make life easier, but no matter how she willed, forgetting was impossible—blasphemy to her mother’s heart. God had given five priceless, unique souls, and God had taken two away.

“Blessed be the name of the Lord.” Her lips stumbled over Job’s lion-hearted declaration of old. He’d lost all ten of his children. Why couldn’t she conjure his faith?

The truck door slammed, and Dick patted her knee. “It’s been two years, Johnie,” he said. As if time touched a mother’s grief.

Her gaze flicked to him. Two years had greyed his hair and furrowed his brow. There was a weariness in his eyes that didn’t wane with sleep. They were his sons, too, but he compartmentalized his pain. He didn’t limp through life the way she did. It hurt not to be understood by the man she loved. By the man who loved her. It hurt to be alone.

A series of gravel roads brought them to the Hall’s homestead. Dick turned to her. “I’ll be back for you in an hour.”

He may not understand, but he cared. She squeezed his hand, and crawled out of the truck.

Uncertainty attacked when her feet touched the ground. What was she doing here at this strange woman’s house?

A gust eddied down the drive, kicking up dust and herding her toward the front door. The porch step groaned under her weight. Swatting a wasp, she knocked. The house quivered as feet approached from the back. Rusty hinges groaned, and Mrs. Hall squinted out, adjusting the spectacles on the bridge of her long, thin nose. An incisive gaze settled on Johnie’s face. Unsure of what to say for herself and too stricken for small talk, Johnie stared back.

Despite the heat, Mrs. Hall wore the same uniform she’d worn that night at the revival—a calf-length grey cotton dress, black cotton stockings, and black lace-up shoes. When she proposed a walk, Johnie’s eyes widened. “Are you sure? It’s awful hot.”

Looking past her, Mrs. Hall removed her apron. “There’s no finer cathedral than a blue Texas sky.”
Stunned by her insight, Johnie’s lips parted. “A walk sounds nice.”

Mrs. Hall’s head snapped to attention, her severe brow darkening. Johnie spun. As Dick backed out of the driveway, a black Ford crunched down the road.

Mr. Hall.

Johnie’s stomach dropped to her ankles. Dick returned, and hope fizzled. She’d have to leave now.

Mrs. Hall’s grey eyes saddened. “You’ll try me again tomorrow, won’t you, dear?
Swallowing, Johnie nodded. “Yes, ma’am. What time?”

The Ford pulled up beside the GMC, and Dick climbed out. Heat rose into her cheeks for Mrs. Hall’s sake. Mr. Hall was mean as a west-Texas rattler, but there was no need for Dick to escort her to the truck. But instead of retrieving Johnie, Dick ambled over to the Ford, smiling. Mr. Hall emerged wearing a fierce scowl, but shook Dick’s extended hand. Mrs. Hall looked on, frozen in place. The corner of her right eye twitched.

The men muttered so low Johnie couldn’t make out what they said. After a moment, Dick shot her a pointed look, and relaxed, arms folded, against the side of the truck. Mr. Hall never dropped his scowl, but seemed more interested in Dick than his wife or Johnie.

Her lips pursed, Mrs. Hall took Johnie’s arm, and led her off the porch to a worn path in the scraggly grass, which crackled in the sun. With every step away from the house, the sky stretched wider. Lonely mesquites dotted the open prairie here and there. There was a fullness to the emptiness. When Johnie breathed, she tasted God on the air. Lulled by the rhythmic grinding of pebbles under Mrs. Hall’s one-inch heels, Johnie startled to her voice. “Your soul’s ailin.’”

Those soft, grey eyes were sharp. “Yes ma’am."
“Heard about your boys. There’s no pain like the death of a child."

Tears pooled in Johnie’s eyes, threatening to spill over. How had she known? Were the losses tattooed on her brow? But of course people talked, especially in small, southern towns.

Mrs. Hall’s bony hand slipped into hers. “May I pray?"
And Johnie knew why she’d come.
“Please.” She closed her eyes, content to be led, thankful conversation wouldn’t be required.

Mrs. Hall didn’t begin right away. The intentional silence of a gathering thunderstorm crackled around them, raising the hair on Johnie’s arms. When Mrs. Hall spoke, her voice, feeble with age, transformed—not in volume but in clarity. “Bow down your ear to me, O Maker of the heavens and the earth, not on my account but on account of your Son, who lived the life I should’ve lived and died the death I should’ve died.

“Not unto us, O Lord, not unto us, but to Your name we give glory. Blessed be the name of the Lord, who does whatever He pleases, who thunders marvelously with His voice, who sends out lightening where it should go, who commands the morning and shakes the wicked from the earth as crumbs from a tablecloth.”

Johnie opened her eyes, half-expecting dark clouds to form overhead, cueing a family to rise from their picnic and shake out the red and white checked cloth.

“It was you who laid the foundations of the earth. You who formed the universe from nothing. You who called light out of darkness. You who summoned land from the deeps. At your word, even the driest, weariest ground yields fruit and herb.”

Thirst ached Johnie’s tongue. Her heart was such a wilderness, a land she believed—at times—to be forsaken by God. And yet even the rocky soil below her feet brought forth the sweet-smelling grass swishing against her skirts and the mesquite shading the jack rabbit at her right. All at the Lord’s command.

“The stars shine in the night sky as signs for seasons and the passage of time, reminding us there are songs in the night if we will only listen. Your finger looses the cord of Orion and leads the Great Bear and her cubs home. Your palms, engraved with our names, shaped the sun and moon, and the clouds ride upon your breath. You call every creature into being and ordain the number of its days.”

A sob hung in Johnie’s throat. How could so few days be right? Even in a world gone wrong?

“Your eye sees the cattle on a thousand hills and the sparrow when it falls. You watch over the lowly ant and hunt prey for young lions. You act as midwife, overseeing the birth of every wild thing. You attend the deaths of your saints.”

In her mind, Johnie saw the Lord resting a hand upon the brow of each son as he lay dying, extending it to escort them from one world to another. But why? Why take her little boys?

“What is man that you are mindful of him? The son of man that you visit him? Yet you formed us in your likeness. You breathed air into our lungs. In you we live and move and have our being. You gave us dominion over all creation, and honored us with eternal souls that we might know you. And when we rebelled, you stooped to the ash heap we made of this world to lift us poor and needy from the dust.”

Mrs. Hall knelt and gathered a handful of fine gravel in her free hand. It sifted through her fingers, carried off by the wind.

Such was life. A vapor. Gone in a blink. It continued, even when Johnie wished it wouldn’t. Man slept, his flesh marrying to the soil, and the gospel marched on. God is—always—in spite of the brevity of mankind. She gasped at the pain of impaling truth. It hurt her human sensibilities. And it was good, for in that pain, she let the other go.

“You cast off your crown to seat us with princes. And what are we, Marvelous King, but little dogs under your table? And yet you bid us feast by your side. You are a God we can touch, and you invite us to taste and see. To enjoy you with all our senses. So we eat the Bread of Life, we drink your bitter cup, and comfort ourselves with the sweetness of your word, which is as honey on our lips.”

As Mrs. Hall praised God’s word, His promises came to Johnie’s mind—When you pass through the waters, I will be with you…When you walk through the fire, you shall not be burned…He will swallow up death forever, and the Lord God will wipe away tears from all faces.

It seemed to Johnie that Mrs. Hall could hear her thoughts. “I know, O Lord, that your judgments are right, and that in faithfulness you have laid affliction on our backs, have caused men to ride over our heads, have brought us through fire and through water. Be merciful to us that we may see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Deliver us in our affliction, and bring us out to rich fulfillment.”

Johnie felt honored by Mrs. Hall’s candor. Most of the women she knew never showed their slip, much less their heart. And yet on this first visit, Mrs. Hall shared her pain through prayer.

A tear slipped from the corner of Mrs. Hall’s weathered eye and trickled along a wrinkle in her cheek. She fell silent, her gaze fixed upon the heavens. Stars blinked awake, and a crescent moon rose over the hills in the distance.

“Praise the Lord! Praise the Lord from the heavens! Praise Him, all his angels! Praise him, sun and moon! Praise Him, all you stars of light!”

And the stars answered the call to arms, streaking across the dusky sky, and fell toward the horizon. One, two, three.

Johnie and Mrs. Hall stopped, faces upturned, marveling at their God and all he had made. Marveling was medicine. It didn’t take away the pain—nothing but heavenly reunion could do that—but it made the pain bearable.

Johnie breathed. Beauty danced before her eyes. The earth was full of goodness again. Her lungs filled with a shout she couldn’t contain. “Praise the Lord!"

The grass caught her words and whispered them across the plain.

Sensing the need to return to her husband, Johnie led Mrs. Hall homeward. Together, they sang doxologies with the sunset until they were reproached by Mr. Hall’s scowl.

On the ride home, Dick asked, “Well? How was it?"
Tranquil, Johnie relaxed against the headrest. The smile came naturally. “That woman can pray the stars out of the sky."
“And stars into those sky blue eyes.” He grinned.
Taking his hand, she kissed it. “Thank you.”

The moment she arrived home, Johnie donned her apron, and whipped up the batter for the pound cake. While it baked, her hands gently worked lard and buttermilk into flour. A batch of cathead biscuits joined the cake in the oven. She fried up a pan of sausage, mixed gravy from the drippings, and sliced several tomatoes, thanking God for the bounty and stomachs to fill. Her four ravenous men rewarded her with contented grunts and moans as they ate. Music to her mother’s heart. And when the dishes were washed and toweled dry, she sat at the piano and played her favorite hymns.

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Snow dusted the prairie before Johnie visited Mrs. Hall again. And again, Johnie came to her limping and left with a steadier gait. For their next walk, God rolled out the blue carpet. Bluebonnets leapt to life from the barren wasteland around them. The time after that, Johnie herself had blossomed. She rubbed her round belly, praying the child inside could hear the praises to the God who gave them both breath. Even the breaths hard to take.

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Years later, when Mrs. Hall had gone the way of all the earth and joined her Maker, Johnie’s seventh child—her only daughter—asked how she’d survived the loss of her two sons.

With a soft smile, Johnie recalled the faithfulness of her God and his servant. “I wouldn’t have. If not for Mrs. Hall.”

Dedicated to Dixie Perry, my mentor, who is as good as a Mrs. Hall to me.