Recently, my dad and I started talking about my past. My dad is an agnostic at best, so it really surprised me when he brought up miracles. I'm the only person in the world to have been cured of Pulmonary Atresia, and it wasn't because of doctors.
After dad and I's little lunchtime discussion, I went home, and started to really think about all that I've been through, and all that God's saved me from. My relationship with God has been a bit rocky. My nature is to be super skeptical of everything, including God, and I've concluded that I wouldn't be a Christian if I didn't suffer like I have. The problem of evil used to be a massive roadblock in my faith I'd stumble over all the time, but I prayed, and God showed me why I've suffered so harshly.
My dad used to be super religious before and shortly after I was born. He worked hard and passionately to get confirmed in his church, which he did in 1991 (and I still make fun of him for the epic mullet he had back then), and was the first to request that I got baptized as soon as possible. But, as my dad watched me suffer, I think that made him stumble in his faith. How could a good God allow such suffering? How could God allow such an innocent newborn to suffer like that? My dad had already seen his dad suffer with his stroke, and now he had to watch me suffer too.
If I didn't suffer like I did, God wouldn't have many chances to show Himself to me in ways that could convince me to reconsider my atheism. But because I was born into a body that no medicine could heal, God came in and healed me time and time again just to show me His power and love. At times, God would answer my prayers on command, and other times, my life would immediately be whacked into a tailspin as soon as I said "amen", and months later God would reveal Himself.
I'm not sure why that is. Sometimes I feel guilty about it. What did I do to deserve such a relationship with God? Why does God save me but not others? Why does God love me at all? Answers to those questions are everywhere in the bible. Each chapter has an answer, which is where I go to look for such answers. If I get frustrated because I'm not finding an answer I can understand, I'm blessed enough to have family and friends I could ask and get an understandable answer from.
I can also look back and sometimes the answer lies in my past. The night after my lunch with dad, I started writing about a particularly hard time in my life. After leaving the middle school in which I got severely bullied in, I was hospitalized with a severe lung infection. The bullying and stress were so severe, it physically weakened my body so much that MRSA (a bacteria I've always had), was able take advantage of it. As I wrote, the memories came flooding back. They were so strong that I felt sick, so I slammed my laptop shut, shoved it in my backpack, and curled up in the bathroom where I watched stupid comedy on youtube until the memories and the illness stopped.
But, in the safety of the daytime, I managed to finish what I started the night before, and I forced myself to talk to my therapist about it a few days later, even though I really, really didn't want to.
In that hospital, I was quarantined to the point I couldn't leave my room or even see my doctors' faces. I was tortured with needles, and my veins were so small due to the anxiety, that the needles were placed in very uncomfortable places on my arms. At nights, I'd cry myself to sleep, and a few nights my parents laid next to me and cried too. The last time the doctors tried getting an IV into me, they failed several times. The last needle that went into me hit both my tendon and my bone in my left elbow. Obviously, the pain made me scream and instinct took over. It took four doctors and my parents to hold me down. I will never forget the pain on my dad's face, which hurt worse than the physical pain I was in at that moment. The doctors finally stopped trying after that, and just left me on my bed, where I just laid shivering in a fetal position. The doctors put me on oral antibiotics, which they overdosed me on, and I was really sick all the next day.
That hospital stay really sticks with me. I still sometimes have night terrors about it. But, there was a greater point to it. In the months following that hospital stay, God stuck with me. I was almost hospitalized again three weeks after I got out, because the infection refused to leave. Doctors tried convincing me that I wouldn't go through the same things I went through previously. I'd get a PICC line, and after a couple days in the hospital, I'd be released to continue PICC line antibiotics at home. But that didn't matter to me. The memory was still way too fresh and traumatic. All I saw when they said "hospitalization" were the failed IV needles and my bloody, bruised arms that were wrapped up completely in gauze afterward. I can still vividly feel the pain, five years later.
After months of fighting and struggling to stay out of the hospital, God finally healed me. It was the first day of spring. I was going into the doctor's office for PFTs. If I failed them, I would be hospitalized right then and there. If I passed them, I could be sent home. Basically, my PFTs had to be above 90% to be acceptable, and when I was hospitalized, they were below 85%, and I wasn't getting better at home.
The night before my appointment, I woke up and had a terrible coughing fit. I was staying at my grandparents' that night, and they woke up as I coughed next door. My grandparents had their backs together and were completely unaware that the other was awake and praying. My grandma Connie finished her prayers and closed her eyes. She immediately opened them. She had seen light and thought she left the bedroom light on. But it was completely pitch dark. So she closed her eyes again, and again she saw light. She opened them up, and she was in fact in the darkness. So she closed her eyes a third time, and the light slowly faded as my coughing fit abruptly stopped.
The next day, I walked into the appointment completely convinced I was going to be hospitalized. I knew I was still sick. My lungs rattled with every breath. But I had faith, and as I was led into the room to do the PFTs, I prayed. The walk felt like slow motion. Every time I took a step, I begged God for healing and for help. By the time we got to the room, my lungs actually stopped rattling, and as I took in a huge breath and blew it out into the PFT machine, 113% popped up on the screen.
At first, I thought it was a glitch, and so did my nurse, so I did it again, and again, and again. The numbers never dipped below 109%. We tried different machines, and it still showed my PFTs were well above 100%. At that moment, I knew I was healed and I was going home. Once again, doctors just shrugged and smiled, called me a miracle, and sent me home.
That's where the reality of God really set into me. I didn't know it, and I strayed away from it at times, but I've never denied the existence of God since. I still ask questions and sometimes I get mad at God, but I never stray far from Him anymore. Instead of running away completely from God, I just sit on His front porch stairs for a bit while I work out my frustrations and questions.
Suffering has brought me close to God. I never enjoy the suffering, but I know God uses it for good. It's rough to go through those things. As of now, I'm still in therapy, and I've been doing EMDR and similar treatments to treat the PTSD that I've developed since I was diagnosed at five, and it's still there. With age, I've healed, but there are memories that really rip me up, such as the hospitalization. Yet, God still shows up in even my worst memories, which really shows His mercy and love.
God could've very easily let me die. He could've just sat back and left me alone. But He didn't. Instead He healed me, and continues to heal me. It's been a long, hard road, but I wouldn't change my history even if I could. My history is how I became a Christian. My suffering is why I believe in God. I wouldn't trade my salvation for anything, even if it meant I'd survive my childhood without the scars and the memories that I live with now. The suffering we endure on earth are only preparing us for the reward that is to come. We should embrace those sufferings, and embrace God, rather than let them turn us bitter and angry. Suffering is a double-edged sword. Ultimately, it's up to the sufferer to go one way or the other.