My mom called unexpectedly this morning, and I thought it she was just confirming the details of my birthday lunch at noon with her and Dad.
“Your dad is coughing up blood, so he’s going to the ER. Please pray.”
Diagnosed with pleurisy over the weekend, he took medicine that was working until it wasn’t, which was apparently this morning. He thought he broke a rib, but the lining of his lungs was (is) inflamed.
I walked into my work’s chapel auditorium to take the phone call and sat down on the floor next to a big painting. All art and name plates are off the walls for a building-wide painting job, and I guess I found where they stowed it all. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I realized I was sitting in front of a giant painting in which the woman with the issue of blood is reaching out to touch Jesus (Matthew 9:20-22; Mark 5:25-34; Luke 8:43-48). I prayed with my dad, hung up, and began to cry in front of the artwork.
I invited my mom to still come during my lunch break to pray, since there are no guests in the ER at this time, and I knew just where to take her. We sat in front of the painting and prayed for my dad, for medical personnel in this trying time, and for God’s promises to my parents to stay at the forefront of their minds. We celebrated the victories He has already wrought through them at Freedom City Church. There is more.
Mom returned home and gave me updates throughout the day: a CT scan revealed blood clots in both of my dad’s lungs. They will use a pleural catheter to release pressure and will wait for the clots to dissolve. After nine hours at the ER, my dad is in a hall room waiting for an actual bed. My mom is with him, and I am at home, praying my guts out.
Verses which have become especially dear to my mom since she and my dad moved to Springfield in a new season of ministry is this: “[The righteous] will still bear fruit in old age, they will stay fresh and green, proclaiming, ‘The Lord is upright; he is my Rock, and there is no wickedness in him’” (Psalm 92:14-15, NIV).
My dad has not yet reached old age: he’s 55. We serve the God of miracles, and I’d say the conditions are just about perfect for one to take place.
Tonight I looked up the title of the painting by artist Ron DiCianni, and it’s “Divine Healing.” The caption reads, “Divine healing is an integral part of the gospel. Deliverance from sickness is provided for in the atonement, and is the privilege of all believers (James 5:14-16).”
I’ve never been more grateful for a building-wide paint job, because it led me to the feet of Jesus in an hour of need. I’m still there — and please pray for my dad: for his clots to dissolve and for God’s promises to flow through his veins and remind him of what He’s made for and made of.
And since God’s healing power will never run out, feel free to share a need below and let me pray for you as well. We can share our needs together.
