Never did I think I would doubt my healing.


And it happened. For the smallest moment, but it still happened.




1:28 a.m.


I was on the bathroom floor trembling from the battle of fighting off an anxiety attack.


It was hour three.


I knew I shouldn’t have had that dirty chai.


Everything going wrong that week came from every direction, reached one common point that created an explosion, and the resulting big mess was me.


The blanket I dragged in wasn’t doing much against the cold tile. I was dizzy from anxiety. Dehydrated.

And when I cried out, “But I thought You healed me!” I didn’t hear anything.


The pill hadn’t helped.  The bubble bath didn’t help.  And my heart pounding was louder than the worship music coming from my phone.


You took away the depression, why can’t you take this away?  I don’t want this anymore..  I just want to function normally!”


I felt as if He was doing nothing.  I know God doesn’t sit and laugh at our pain, but reality is altered in moments of extreme panic.


I felt like the subject of a cruel joke.  Healed, but not really.  Just one less thing to deal with.


“But…. I thought you healed me….”



I became a child again. I begged for my mom.


Maybe I should have continued to reach for the Lord, but I felt so deeply alone in that moment.


So I fell into my mom arms.  (The best part of being home from college is their availability)


I settled for the comfort of a hug and a wet washcloth.





2:23 a.m.


My mom had guided me off the bathroom floor to my bed.


Weak and stiff from it all, I didn’t move a muscle as she tucked me in.


All night, every waking moment I rolled my eyes at God.  He could have saved me from the agony.  I’d be five hours in to a great nights sleep if he had just done something.


Yet still, that worship music played.  All night it played.


And when I was graced with moments of sleep, it was the first thing I heard upon waking.

Before I could register the anxiety, I heard the sweet words of worship to the God who heals all – who had healed me.




The next day was a still struggle.  Didn’t talk to God much out of the stubbornness and pride.


But slowly He got me shut up my emotional ranting and listen.


Through the depression I praised Him.  I still worshipped.  I still leaned on Him.  I constantly declared that through the depression I would praise Him; I would trust His plan.


When did I stop praising Him in the anxiety?  When did I stop believing that along with my struggles came a beautiful, perfect plan written by my heavenly Father?


I’ve officially had anxiety for seven years.  Some time in those seven years I stopped believing there was a purpose to my anxiety.


But God didn’t allow me to have anxiety and forget about it.  It is worked into His plan, woven throughout the moments He has meticulously plained for my life.


And I have a promise that all things are worked together for His good.

Just as I held on to the promise of healing, I must hold on to this one as well.


All things – all events, all tears, all cries out to the Lord – will be used for His glory and good. 


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