We are in a sermon series at church called He Still Moves Stones. It’s an 8 week series on the miracles of Jesus that are unique to the Gospel of John. There was a point in this past Sunday’s message when Pastor Benji had each of us turn to our neighbor and say, “You are a miracle.” It came at a time when I needed to be reminded of that fact.
I had an hour-long meltdown last week. Thankfully I had it at home, but it wasn’t done in isolation because Petra was pressing on an emotional trigger point. An area of denial was brought into my consciousness where I could finally see it for what it was. A lot of pain flowed out with the tears. I think some of it just settled in my neck and shoulder because I’ve had a crick ever since. The next day, one of my co-workers looked at me and said, “You look like hell.” I felt like it, too. That evening I was telling my sponsor about the meltdown, and I told her, “You know, I didn’t want a drink.”
Early in my sobriety I was told to wait for the miracle. Of course, also in my early sobriety I did a whole lot of wondering what the heck these people were talking about. I could not fathom being able to function and live consistently sober. My sponsor would say to me, “I promise! It gets better!” Part of me thought that was bullshit. But another part of my hung on to her words for dear life, hoping beyond hope it was true for me like it was for her. Little by little, I began to believe, and I began to see the miracle I was told to wait for.
“The miracles of God are often time-delayed and require patience.” – Benji Kelley
I longed for deliverance throughout my childhood when I learned to shut down and dissociate. I longed for deliverance while I was numbing the pain I didn’t know I needed to face. I longed for a quick-fix, pain-free deliverance. That’s not what I’m getting, but it doesn’t make it any less of a miracle.
It was a miracle that I survived my childhood. I wasn’t in physical danger, although that was questionable during my appendix saga. But what I mean is, it was a miracle that I did not ever become suicidal. It was a miracle as an adult that I was a functioning alcoholic who could hold down a job and appear to have it all together. Now, it is a miracle that I don’t have the compulsion to continue to numb. It is an even greater miracle that I am willing and able to face facts and admit that I suffered abuse, allow myself to process the emotions, and find the deliverance I wanted so badly for so long.
I believe in miracles. I am a miracle.