It was Monday night of camp, and while it was the first night of chapel, I was puking out my guts from a massive headache. School had just ended, and leading up to IYC, I was fully aware of the mental and emotional stress that had compounded into physical pain. All I wanted to do was quit camp and go home. Just be done. It was too much, and honestly, I wasn’t in much of a mood to help. But if I had left, I would have missed out on what God wanted to do among the youth, but how He wanted to meet me, as well.
I’m glad that I didn’t quit. I’m thankful I took the night to rest, rejuvenate and was there for my campers for the week. It was a blast. And then came Thursday.
I was in the youth service, and at the end of worship, the drummer, a youth pastor from Fort Peck, had a word of knowledge that there were students who were carrying things that they didn’t want to have to take back home. I prayed some; mostly just intercession as a whole instead of specific prophetic words. When an invitation to ask the Holy Spirit to pour out was given, I leaned in.
First of all, any time I went to the front of the Tabernacle’s altar to pray for the students, I could feel the presence of the Holy Spirit. Then during worship, I sank...Raising my hands, I also swayed (not something that is common). My left hand reached a little higher, palm facing upward and my right arm, also raised. It felt as if I was dancing and holding hands with someone. A simple dance, but like a father/daughter dance.
“You’re a beautiful bride,” was said at that moment.
I found myself smiling, too...Smiling big, and bigger than I have in a long time. I felt His presence in my hand, my wrist and all the way down my arm. I think I got tickled, because even my arm hairs were twitching (and it wasn’t cold in the building). Golly gee, but then again, Holy Spirit spoke, “Joy.” He told me that He will be with me in Missoula. He also told me, “I love you.”
I didn’t want to leave, and I could’ve spent the entire night there, if I was allowed. It was a simple evening. Just worshipping in the presence of the Father, but it meant so much. God’s presence, but also His grace was poured out that evening. This year, that has been my word - grace. Growing up in church, and being a Christian since a kid, one would think I know what that means, but something went amiss along the way. I guess I’m back to learning what it means to be a child of God that is saved by grace and not concerned about righteousness proved by my own efforts.
It’s been a curveball. But I’m diving in. Some wrangling, but still stepping forward, and even that Thursday, God revealed His love, but also, His grace. Four weeks preceding camp, something had upset me, and according to a temperamental habit, I hit something. But that time, I chose to hit a wall. It wasn’t until a week or so after the incident I started to feel pain in my wrist. I googled my symptoms, but some sites said that fractures can feel worse than sprains.
The pain wasn’t that intense, and it would come and go. I didn’t want to go to a doctor, because, well, ka-ching ($$$). I didn’t let anyone know, but for a little while, I believed that I may have finally broken a bone due to the results of allowing anger to get out of hand. Nevertheless, I wasn’t going to dare ask God to heal my wrist.
I knew I needed it. After all, it was my left wrist. But there was a shame with this pain. This pain was a result of my sin. A part of me believed I should just deal with it. A natural consequence to my actions, and better learn from it. Well, I learned from it (a week before camp happened, something came up, but instead of reacting flippantly, I just took a breath and dealt with it appropriately - yay!!), but I still hesitated to ask for healing. Though I’m a Christian saved by grace, if I was frank, I would admit that at some level, I feel as if I should still make a payment for my sins. And yet...Yet, there is a shame that leads to repentance, and when one repents, there is forgiveness and that forgiveness takes away sin as far as the east is from the west (see Romans 2:4 and Psalms 103:12).
Fast forward to the Thursday night at camp. God’s presence surrounding me. I felt it in my hand, wrist and down my arm. I was dancing with Jesus, and He told me He loved me. His presence touched my wrist. I didn’t ask, but since that night, I have no longer had any pinching pain in my left wrist. It was healed.
I realized (and mind you, I am still learning) that I shouldn’t subjugate myself to a sentence that Jesus already paid for. And as quite admirable (and needed) to take responsibility for a wrong, to command a condemnation post-forgiveness is the very opposite of grace. God LOVES me, and I wonder how often I have broken His heart when I have wrestled with knowing that only Jesus saves, but my actions and words relay a belief that I must prove my own righteousness.
It was never about what I could do or hope to do in the future. It has always been about what Jesus’ blood afforded for reconciliation between humanity and the Divine.
I wonder how many dances I have missed out on, because I’ve been so busy trying to be “about my Father’s business”, when His business for me is to just sit at His feet.
