Standing strong in faith

We’ve all seen our share of “false” miracles, but there is one testimony that no act of deception can stain: my own.

As an infant, I developed double pneumonia in my lungs, and at 6 months was reduced to my birthweight. One day, the doctor flatly told my mother that it wasn't going to be much longer, and that if she wanted my father to see me before I was gone, that he should get there now.

My mother called my father, who was working in a feed mill. Can you imagine hearing that message over the phone? Right then, right there, he prayed. On the floor of his job, he prayed to God. He called on whose name? The name of Jesus.

The result is on medical record, written by the doctor himself. In the records is written, "And he suddenly got better." I was healed by God. Isn't that profound? I want you to think about this: the real God, the Creator of the universe, the most powerful being that has ever been, physically touched my lungs. Why?

My father, a man of God and future pastor/evangelist, would seek God earnestly. Before I was born, my father began to have a recurring vision. In this vision he would see a woman (whose face was obscured) holding a new baby. She would hold the child up to my father, and he would see that the baby's feet and ankles were crooked. Each time he saw the child, he would back away.

On the third time the vision appeared, he saw himself lay hands on the child, and its ankles and feet were healed.

When I was born, surely enough, there were problems with my ankles and feet. They were not facing the correct direction; they were twisted, and it would be impossible for me to walk like a normal person without numerous surgeries and a prolonged wearing of leg braces.

My father remembered the vision, and knew that God had shown him this for a reason, as a sort of bolstering of his faith for a miracle that God had already promised before I was born.

Repeatedly, every time there was a church service, my parents would request prayer for my healing. Nothing ever happened. Yet another evening they brought me up to be prayed for, and nothing again happened. They returned to their seats, sitting me back down, and the service continued. While everyone was singing, my dad turned to look at me, and there I was, standing on the church pew. My ankles and feet were normal. God, the Creator of the universe, had physically touched my ankles and feet.

This miracle was witnessed by everyone there; people were familiar with my ailment, and the change could not be denied. Years later, when I was a teenager, a man came up to me and looked at my feet and said that he remembered when it happened. The miracle had a long-standing effect.

That’s the great thing about a blessing from God: it never expires, never is less than what it was, never can be taken away by unbelievers. The miracle strengthened my dad's faith in Him, blessed others there when it happened and would also follow me and make me always aware of His love for the rest of my life. That miracle, which happened to my little body 37 years ago, still brings joy, still presents an opportunity for God to be glorified, and still can encourage anyone who has ears to hear.

Every time I stand, every time that I run, every step I take, every time that I breathe -- it's a reminder of the miracle.

Jeffrey A.

Lemoore, CA