Thoughts on my seventh anniversary

On August 27th, 2000, at five o'clock in the afternoon, I was taken from one life to begin another. Today marks the seventh anniversary.

I once had a dream, not long after the hemorrhage, that I was living in an ugly, gray concrete house. I was content to be in it, though there was nothing inside the house and I could not see or hear anything that was happening outside of it. One day came a storm, so strong that the four concrete walls crumbled down, and I was left without shelter. Desperate and homeless, I began a journey to find my real home. The journey was long and difficult. I could not see more than a few inches before me, and I was all alone. Each step was heavier than the last, and I was tired physically and emotionally. At times I thought of my old concrete house, "If only the storm didn't bring it down!" But it did. Deep down in me I knew it wasn't my real home anyway.

Just as I was about to collapse from exhaustion, I arrived. Before me was the most breathtakingly scenery, too beautiful for human imagination. It was a city of golden luminescence: everything was golden, including the sky and the path beneath my feet. On the distant horizon, a castle of gold stood majestically. Tears of joy poured down like rain, washing away all the sorrows, disappointments and doubts that clung on me during the journey. I started running, faster than I have ever ran, my feet felt as light as clouds. "I am home! I am finally home!"

Days before this seventh anniversary, I thought of the possibility that I would finally be "home"--as in the dream--when I wake up this morning. Perhaps I would finally be completely freed from this bodily prison, and that I can, from now on, run with feet of cloud. I can stand before the world, shouting on the top of my lungs, "I am freed! My difficult journey has ended! Celebrate with me!"

Last night I played and gave my testimony at Crossroads Tabernacle during its monthly "Audience of One" service. I talked about how God has healed me thus far, and that I was a walking miracle, alive and playing. Afterward the service, a member of the congregation asked me, "When did your healing take place?" I knew she meant: "When did you go to bed with complete paralysis, and woke up the next morning to find yourself suddenly able to walk with a cane and play the violin?"

We all love miracles, whether one believes in an almighty Creator or not. There is something amazingly pleasing to the human hearts to see something that requires an incredible amount of work to suddenly appear in thin air. The best part of it is that there is no waiting involved, an ability that I believe all humans are born without. That's why we all wish we have our own personal genie in a lamp to to say "your wish is my command" and to execute that command right away. I am not saying this to belittle human nature in anyway. I still wish, to this day, that I can receive complete healing right here, right now. Needless to say, this longing occupied a large part of my mind (sometimes all of it) during these past seven years.

But would I know what longing means if God would have completely healed me one day years ago? Would I know what to say (and what not to say) to someone else who is hurting, who is disappointed, who is trying to live a day at a time? Would I know what hope means without having to completely rely on it to make each day worthwhile? Would I know what love means without seeing it in its purest forms, without self-interest, without immediate reward and gratification?

It is my seventh anniversary today. And I am celebrating.