Christmas Miracle

What makes a miracle Christmasy? My mom asked that question a few days ago. It's a great question. The whole point if Christmas is to bring attention to Christ, so I'm all about claiming my personal miracles as Christmas miracles. For example, what happened to me on New Year's Day. Let me back up to almost midnight to tell you the whole story. Buckle up, it's a long one (but so freaking worth it).

The unsuspecting Germans here love to set off rockets all over town just after midnight on New Years, and it's brighter and louder than the Fourth of July in the heartland of America. Lots of North Americans enjoy setting things on fire, so many people connected with BFA living or visiting here are among the Germans in the square. I was parked in my chair in a safe corner of the town square next to my friends Johanna and Rachel. Rachel has been on crutches for about a month. The three of us were a safe distance from the biggest rockets but still in the thick of the smoke. Two young guys walked up to us just minutes after midnight, coming around the side to talk to Rachel.

"We noticed you walking on crutches," they told her, "Would you mind if we prayed for you?"

I laughed.

I laughed a little to myself, a little to Jo, and once they'd finished praying over Rachel, a little with her. I love this small town. I've had multiple people come up to me and ask to pray for me or tell me they have been praying for me. It's a great encouragement. Rachel deserves that just as much as I do. I laughed because it was the first time I'd been passed up for the primary attention for prayer. I'm not the center of the prayer universe, and I love it. God is. They prayed to God for Rachel's healing. I asked if I could share it because I loved it and also found it amusing that I was passed over for prayer.

Well, the joke was on me because the guys stuck close by and waited a few minutes to ask me if they could pray for me as well. I'll never turn down prayer. Those of you who have followed all year know that pre-surgery, I asked my dad to pray that God would be glorified and walking again was an afterthought in light of that. Any time someone lifts me up in prayer, they are drawing attention to God. I'm all for that.

These two guys - an alumnus of BFA and the brother of a current staff member - laid hands on my ankles and on my back and begged the Lord to heal me. They left me with some encouraging words and a random request. "I know this might sound strange," one told me, "But when you go home, try to wiggle your toes. I'm not really sure why, but I feel like I just need to tell you that." 

"I will," I promised. I do that every night. And every morning. But I didn't tell him that. I've tried to wiggle my toes every day for 347 days. My toes spasm with the rest of my lower half, but I had not had any control over any movement below my knees in almost a year. Back in REHAB, Alex told me to keep trying to move my feet every day. She said it might not happen if I tried, but it definitely wouldn't happen if I didn't try. As I tucked myself into bed after the midnight madness, I went through the normal nightly routine and tried to wiggle my toes. 

As usual, nothing happened, but I thanked God for the chance to share my story with these guys and have them pray for me. My God is still a healer, and I'll never stop asking for more.

I woke up January 1, transferred from my bed to my chair, hobbled into the bathroom, mucked about with the still necessary machinery there, and took a shower, awkwardly gripping my lower legs and washing them carefully. As I dried off my right foot, careful to get between each toe, I made my morning attempt at wiggling the digits. One moved. With my mind. I stared dumbly. Not sure if it was an eerily timed spasm, I tried it again. The second toe moved. As I moved it. My jaw dropped.

I tried it again.

It still moved as I made it.

A strangled sob rushed out.

I finished drying off and got out of the shower. I still had to hobble to the wheelchair, and stayed in the wheelchair the rest of the day. I'm not walking around as before my accident, but I moved my toe on my own for the first time in 347 days. That's a high that won't easily wear off. My parents arrived a little later in the morning and I quickly whipped my shoe and sock off to show them what I had discovered in the morning. It took a little longer because, it seems, my toe has a hard time responding in the cold, but, eventually, the motion came when I wanted it to.