We drove the
thirty hours straight to Florida. Twelve year old David. Twenty year old Alana.
Mom and Dad. It was June 2008. It was our last family trip together. We were
off to see the Wizard – a crazy Canadian faith healer on a ninety day binge of
doing god’s wonders.
Jesus said, “You’re not listening. Let me say it again.
Unless a person submits to this original creation—the ‘wind hovering over the
water’ creation, the invisible moving the visible, a baptism into a new
life—it’s not possible to enter God’s kingdom. “So don’t be so surprised when I tell you that you have to be ‘born from above’—out of this world, so to speak.
You know well enough how the wind blows this way and that. You hear it rustling through the trees, but you have no idea where it comes from or where it’s headed next. That’s the way it is with everyone ‘born from above’ by the wind of God, the Spirit of God.”
Nicodemus asked, “What do you mean by this? How does this happen?”
Jesus said, “You’re a respected teacher of Israel and you don’t know these basics?
The Message: John 3:5
I am
Nicodemus. I don’t get it. I don’t get why god would choose to heal our son in
Florida instead of Toronto. I don’t get why god would heal him and not all
children with Autism? I don’t believe it’s about being good enough to deserve a
healing. And I don’t think it’s about just having enough faith.
But still –
there is a mystery at work. Friends have been touched and found healing in such
experiences. So, I suspend my disbelief and get in the car.
Call it a Leap
of Faith.
Call it a
Pilgrimage.
Call it a
desperate attempt to cure what was ailing at the heart of our family.
Statistics
tell us that the birth of a disabled child is a recipe for marriage break-up.
But Carol and I already had a couple of strikes against us before David was
born.
Right from the
start we walked at different speeds. One of us would always need to adjust
their gait to accommodate the other.
Going to the
Airport Church was one such accommodation. I would go and do my best to suspend
judgment, to enter into the spirit of it, to appreciate what god was doing.
But I was
mostly sitting on the edge of the pool dangling my feet in those waters.
Sometimes I would get in and splash around but always in the shallow end – my
toes never leaving the bottom for long.
That’s the way
it was with David and swimming lessons. I took him summer after summer to local
lakes around Fenelon Falls. Instructors would use all their skill and coaxing
to get him to take off through the water. But he would defy all efforts.
David loves
the water. He would splash and spin and blow bubbles and do what the
instructors wanted – a bit – but just never enough to lift his feet off the
bottom and swim.
So it was with
all the different therapies we tried with David. We educated ourselves about
Autism and tried them out. David would make some progress and we would get
excited – and then he would regress – three steps forward – four steps
back. The hopes that our son might
escape the clutches of this disorder that bottled up his bright light were
dashed again and again.
But hope is a
powerful tonic. When your heart is already broken open, the soil is fertile for
seeds to take root. When all of your questions fall to the ground unanswered
like rain, something green sprouts in those days when the sun comes out.
Something
wild. Something beyond. Some thing at work in the world that I can’t explain or
even explain away.
Unless a person submits to this original creation—the
‘wind hovering over the water’ creation, the invisible moving the visible, a
baptism into a new life…
When we get to
Florida – the healer has run out of steam. He’s taking a break. Story of my life
– “You should been here an hour ago. You should have been here last year. You
should have been here when…” I’m always missing the wave it seems.
But the circus
continues without the big cheese. The focus is on Jesus after all and there’s
lots of others ready to take the stage and keep things going. We enter in and
swim around. Join in the excitement of this “new thing” that is emerging. The
preacher talks about how what is happening here is so much bigger than our
small ideas of church and denominations and theologies.
I can dig
that. That is a party I can join in. From back in the cheap seats where we’ve
parked David’s special stroller, I get into the worship. I raise my hands in a
Tai Chi stance and let the waves of electricity flow through my body. There’s a
power present that I’m tapping into.
Then there’s a
tap on my shoulder. I open my eyes to see a young man with black hair, an olive
complexion, a neatly trimmed beard, and bright eyes looking up at me.
“what’s wrong
with your son?” he asks. I tell him.
“would you
like me to pray for him?” he offers. I look at Carol and she nods. So, with the
demeanor of a waiter in a fine restaurant uncorking a bottle – he goes to work.
“I’m Samuel”
he tells us. He takes out a small vial of oil, gives me a whiff of it, and then
anoints each of us with a small dab on our foreheads. Then he anoints David
who’s not sure of this stranger. His parents take hold of his hands and, with
our assurance he calms down, and lets Samuel pray over him.
It was short
and simple and then he was gone. I loved how it happened. Not up front. Not on
display. But Samuel came to us, found us, and offered us the gift with a quiet
confidence and humble dignity.
It was only
after he left that I made the connection. Carol saw my grin grow and the tears
on my cheeks, and gave me a quizzical look.
“Samuel has just anointed David” I explained.
She smiled and nodded.
David didn’t
start talking or singing or anything. He didn’t seem any different at all as we
headed back to the motel. But we’d had a moment and it had touched us and we
held it close in our hearts.
********
Next morning David and I head off to the motel pool for a splash. David’s in the lead and
I’m surprised when he marches right past the shallow end and climbs down into
the deep end. Before I have a chance to say anything or jump in – he pushes off
from the side and paddles all the way across to the other side.
I’m standing
there with my mouth open just watching. He pushes off again from the far side,
spins like a dolphin, ducks under and bobs up to the surface with a big smile.
He’s floating – relaxed and free and happy.
Something
shifted for David that day. From somewhere he’d discovered the trust he needed
to let go.
Something
shifted for me that day too. From somewhere I discovered the trust I needed to
let go of my grip on the pool’s edge, to lift my feet from the bottom and just
float.
What happened
was not what I expected. Letting go of what I was sure was my true security
meant that I was swept out of the four corners of the pool and down river. The
four walls that I called home -that held my life together – I thought - was
left behind.
There were
moments of great elation and freedom. There were moments of panic and pain as I
tumbled over rocks and rapids swallowing water and thrashing about. There were
friends on the shore who had swam those waters before me. Their calls of
encouragement helped as I slowly relaxed and learned to trust that the air in
my lungs, the spirit I breathed, was enough to buoy me.
David and I
swim most weekends now. There’s no instructor. There’s no number of laps we
achieve. We float. We dive. We play. David’s got this style of thrashing about
so that newcomers to the pool think he’s drowning. I love watching their faces
go from alarm to surprise when David finishes his duck and spin and ends up in
a calm float - Nicodemus on his back watching and learning close by.
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