A Miraculous Touch of God

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This post was first published on Heartwings Blog.

“M-m-mommy, I-I want my d-d-dolly…” Cait’s tongue knotted as she struggled to spit out the words. She needed a miraculous touch of God.

What had happened to my baby? Was she beginning to stutter? My precious second daughter had begun to speak in full sentences by the time she was thirteen-months-old. Convinced that God had a special anointing for her in communication, it appeared that something was robbing her of that gift before she could turn two.

A recent conversation with another mom at an exercise group sparked more fears. Her son’s stuttering diagnosis required weekly schedules of speech therapy, which she claimed had produced slim results.

Would that be my daughter’s fate as well? We needed a miracle from God.

Searching for answers in the Word

Searching for answers in the Word

I searched the Word and clung to His promises. Each day I prayed about Cait’s speech, and each day the stuttering grew worse. Should I make an appointment with a therapist?  Desperation found a foothold, but the Lord began to work in the situation as I interceded in faith and stood on His Word.

One day, as I agonized over her struggle, I discerned in the spirit that something was holding her tongue. If this signaled a spiritual battle, I had to wage war against it.

baby cait and little meg

I asked Meg, my four-year-old daughter, to pray with me for her sister’s healing. My little prayer partner scooted on the rug beside me, and the three of us joined hands and bowed our heads. By the blood of the Lamb and the word of my testimony, I bound the enemy and loosed his hold over Cait’s tongue. In Jesus’s name, I commanded the enemy to free her speech and asked the Lord to restore it to perfection.

For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the powers, against the world forces of this darkness, against the spiritual forces of wickedness in the heavenly places ~ Ephesians 6:12, NASB.

Being so young, Cait had no idea that God was touching her that day. But right away, my toddler spoke words that flowed freely for the first time in weeks. As we rejoiced in this miracle, even her eyes widened with amazement, and her face radiated relief.

Cait at 15-months-old

Cait at 15-months-old

As the days passed, I kept a vigilant eye. Would there be a second attack? I understood from scripture that the enemy doesn’t give up easily.

Sure enough, about three days later, her stuttering resumed. My little prayer partner joined me again, and we prayed just as before. I stood on the Word and declared the enemy was not going to win—Jesus would be victorious!

And the result? A miraculous touch of God. After twenty-six years, the stuttering has never returned. I praise the Lord for His goodness and mercy, who is using Cait today as a gifted journalist.

meg and cait 2016

Do you or someone you love need a miraculous touch of God today? 

Lord, I pray you would reach out and touch everyone who needs healing today.

Easter: Seeking Messiah (Part 4)

courtesy of morguefile

courtesy of morguefile

A rooster crowed loud and clear, dividing night from morning. Simon awoke with a start, surfacing from a bad dream. Where is Messiah? The question had tormented his sleep.

His sore feet throbbed from yesterday’s interminable search. High and low, around every corner and doorway, he had sought Jesus and His disciples in some upper room he had never found.

He pushed his cover aside and sat up. The darkness permeated the room, but gray shadows promised the wings of dawn. Was his brother awake? He laced his sandals around his tender soles and stood.

“Simon.” Saul’s voice whispered from an adjoining room. “Come outside.”

He followed his brother through the door and met him by an olive tree. In the lifting darkness, he could make out his features—poker-faced, wrinkled brow, wide-eyed.

Saul leaned close to his ear. “A temple servant—a believer—brought news early. He is warning all of Jesus’s followers to proceed with caution. Caiaphas had Jesus arrested very late last night in the Garden of Gethsemane and is holding Him in a prison cell even now.”

Simon swallowed hard. The realization strangled him, and he hung his head, his shoulders slumping. “I—I couldn’t reach Him in time.”

Saul patted his brother’s back. “It’s not your fault. You did everything you possibly could.”

“Brother. I must go to the temple. Will you accompany me?” He turned and stepped onto the road.

“Gladly.” Saul matched his steps, and both escalated into a rapid clip.

As they neared the heart of the sacred city, Simon viewed the temple’s towering presence in the early dawn. He imagined Jesus bound in an underground dungeon—a horrible pit fit only for criminals, not his innocent Messiah. The volume of low, rumbling voices heightened as they drew closer.

“Many people are already assembled. Perhaps they will release Him soon.” Saul’s words were hopeful, but Simon sensed the agony behind them.

“Watch out! Who is this?” Simon fell sideways against his brother.

A madman had dashed out of the rays of the rising sun, pushing Simon aside and fleeing in the opposite direction. The man’s wrapped face was invisible, revealing only wild eyes, and he uttered a cry that should have come from a wolf, not a man. Eyes that seemed familiar. He tore away with no apology, growling in torment like a wounded animal.

The brothers rocked on their heels as they stared at his zigzag into the distance and up a hill. Simon turned back to Saul and grabbed his arm. “Something terrible must have happened. Quickly!”

Their steps spurred into a sprint to the courtyard of the high priest. Crowds milled, voices argued. “Jesus is a blasphemer! The witnesses have testified!”

Defenders contended. “He is guilty of no crime. Our Messiah is from God and must be released!”

Simon ran to the edge of the porch and peered. Was that Jesus, surrounded by chief priests and elders? He heard slaps and voices mocking. His heart jolted, landing in his throat. He leaned against Saul, his knees buckling. “My God, they’re beating Him!”

Saul pointed. “Look! They’re leading Him off in chains. Let’s see where they’re taking Him.”

courtesy of lightstock

courtesy of lightstock

Simon clung to his brother for support as they trailed a large crowd of followers trudging down the road. The dust, knee-high from scores of shuffling sandals, puffed brown in the early morning brightness. They soon discovered their destination was to see Pilate. As they waited in the distance, Simon wiped the streaming sweat from his brow and coughed, his throat dry, straining to discern what was happening.

Time crawled. The chief priests reappeared, pushing and shoving Jesus, forcing him in a new direction.

The crowd waved fists in the air at the sight, crying out. Some pleaded for mercy, others condemnation.

One elder in the circle with Jesus placed his hands on either side of his mouth. “Pilate is sending Him to Herod—He is a Galilean!”

The volume of differing opinions rose. Simon judged that the majority of voices were expressing hostile remarks against Messiah, and his heart ached.

“If they could only know what it was to be a leper …” He recoiled at the memory of his dissolving extremities wrapped in stinking rags, forced to proclaim Unclean! to passersby. But to be delivered and healed by one touch from Jesus. His life restored, his body whole.

His brother hugged him close. “Let’s continue. I pray that Pilate may be merciful to our Lord.”

Saul flashed a reluctant smile as they joined the hundreds on the next leg of the journey. The sand in the hourglass was slipping away for Jesus. And Simon’s son.

courtesy of morguefile

courtesy of morguefile