By Richard A. Money
Copyright 2011 Richard A. Money
Smashwords Edition
Table of Contents
Ordination and My First Assignment
Kansas City and Healing Seminar
There Are Dreams and There Are Visions
About the Cover
In my background, the symbol for the Holy Spirit has been the dove. Several months ago I met with a close friend who is well versed in the Celtic traditions and he mentioned that the goose is the symbol for the Holy Spirit. He compared my journey in this life to the strength of the goose and leadership qualities of the geese as they fly through storms. This appealed to me and I felt that the cover of this book would be geese flying in a morning sunrise. This I felt, would be the symbol of a new dawn in which the Holy Spirit would be predominant since I believe that the Holy Spirit motivated the writing of this book. This seemed to be verified a few days ago when visiting my son in Liberty, MO.
I was having a rough night. Many things were going on in my head, none of which were major and yet they really were important to me. Would this book ever get published for one? Secondly, my work with Medicaid and Medicare seemed to be changing and how would we get by without my working?
Obviously, my trust issues with the Lord needed a boost. (I have to admit, this happens more frequently than I like.) I did not sleep much and as I got up slightly before dawn I decided to watch the sunrise. The dawning of a new day has always been my favorite time. The sky was beginning to lighten and it was filled with the dark clouds of the night. I knew that as the sun would rise those dark clouds would be rose red and the dawn would be a kaleidoscope of changing colors. As I sat there watching the beauty unfold the thought occurred to me that if I saw a flock of geese, this would certainly be the cover of the book. Sure enough, one or two geese did fly by but not enough to give me a feeling that this would be verification for the cover idea. Then it happened. As the rising sun began to color the formerly dark clouds with the rosy and gold colors, a flock of geese flew across the scene. WOW! What a beautiful sight! Then it really happened. Another huge flock followed. And then another, and another. Five huge flocks of geese flew across this beautiful sunrise! Then the Lord really spoke to me.
The book would be printed and it would be a success and there would be abundance in my life. When I say, “the Lord spoke”, I mean it was an overpowering feeling or a knowing deep within me, one which I do not get very often, but am beginning to recognize. (It has probably been around before but I have not been so aware of it.) This abundance would be in every aspect of my life and it would include my family as well. There was a deep sense of Peace which engulfed me at the time, and this sense of Peace has stayed with me since that morning.
LOOKS LIKE AT LEAST THE COVER WILL FLY!!!!!!
Acknowledgements
This is not a very scholarly work. There are no ibids or opcits. What follows is a collection of memories and works which I have read, and I do not remember who said what or wrote what and when. So I really owe a great deal of gratitude to the following gurus in my life: Gregg Braden, Wayne Dyer, Deepak Chopra, Joan Borsynko, Eckert Tolle, Course in Miracles, Caroline Myss, and last but not least, Jesus Christ, the Bible and the Holy Spirit. Also, to all of the Guardian Angels and Spirits who have watched over me even when I was not conscious of their presence.
I cannot thank her enough with words, Mary Cramer, who without her this book would not have been written. She has been my support and mentor throughout the past couple of years and she must also take the blame for this work. I won’t take all of the blame. Just kidding Mary! A special thanks also to Dianne Walsh for her assistance in editing this book.
And a very special thanks to my wife Jackie who came out of retirement to help me say what I wanted to say in a way which I did not know how to say it. MORE TODAY THAN YESTERDAY BUT LESS THAN TOMORROW.
To all the teachers and people who have supported and loved me for the past seventy two years, and to all those who did not. They too have been my teachers even though I didn’t like it at the time.
To my wife, Jackie, who has not only loved me above and beyond the call of duty, but who has listened to my wacky theories almost to the point of tears. Forty five years down and another forty to go…
To my four children, who though they have not always understood me, they have honored and loved me as I have loved them. God has blessed our family greatly, even though at times it has not been a bed of roses. (Even a bed of roses has thorns.)
To my grandchildren, who I hope will have a lasting memory of Grampa by this book. A memory that will surpass what the oldest grandchild said about his Grampa when asked by his father what he thought about his Grampa. “He’s O.K. Dad, but he is a little different.” With that I will take my Indian blanket and head for the woods!
Forward
If the reader has made it this far in the book you have my congratulations. The reason for the title will be explained later. I think this is what is known in some circles as “chumming the waters”. I don’t expect this book to be a record-breaking novel. In fact, the only reason it is being written is because so many people have told me over the years that I have a book in me. When am I going to get it out? Well, here it comes, for better or for worse. Where it will wind up and how, I have no idea. Like most of life, I trust that it will just happen as it is supposed to happen, even if I didn’t always think that way. I really do believe that much of what has been written was written by a Power greater than me. I just am not that smart to have it otherwise. I have always said when people ask how I am, that “I am like fine wine. I get better with age!” I am not sure about that though, because age does not necessarily bring wisdom. It’s just that people may be kinder to those of us who have some senility.
This book is comprised of many incidents in my life that I believe may show not what I have done, but what I have become with the Grace of God. If you are looking for a religious experience, I don’t think you will find it here, although you may. I’m not making any promises.
I hope it is written simply and without any “axe grinding”, but I’m sure there will be times when I just can’t help myself. My opinions are important…at least to me. It is not my intention to disturb anyone. If the reader is satisfied with his or her present mode of worship or the religious manner in which they worship God, and if they have the Peace and Love in their hearts for their fellow man, then by all means this book is not for them. But if the reader is dissatisfied with what has been spoken to him or her and if they are searching for something that seems to be missing in his religion, then this book may inspire him to find a soul-satisfying element that has been missing. The Holy Spirit is still at work in the world, perhaps, even more today than in the past couple of hundred years.
This book does not contain all of the answers, but it may spark a fire which may lead to real Peace on earth and brotherhood for all men.
I hope you will find this journey of my life entertaining. Today, I wonder how I made it this far. I know it was by the grace of God and the Holy Spirit. And if the future of my life will be anything like the past, I know it will be a real HOOT! God really does have a sense of humor!
For all the events and people that have come into my life to make me what I Am today, I give thanks to the Supreme Power, God, or whatever you choose to call it. It is not that white-haired and balding old man sitting on a golden throne, but the Very Source of all. In All and with All. Past, Present and Future. Now on with the book or whatever.
PS. The balding old man with white hair is me. Any other similarity is purely coincidental or by His choice.
The Early Years
It was 1938. Hitler was invading Poland but I didn’t care. I was busy being born to Richard and Mary Money. On March 2, Mom was giving me life in this world and seeing the light about which I will explain later. Dad was feeling no pain and I don’t remember much about this memorable event either. Only Mom remembered the pain and let everyone know about it for almost ninety years. Especially me. I think there must have been a touch of Jewish mother in Mom. She loved guilt and didn’t miss a chance to throw it out. It seemed like guilt and pain were her life’s blood. More later.
Richard F. (Dad) was a complete orphan by the age of five. He was born in England of an English ship purser and an Italian woman named Sylvia Gogna. He lived in Italy in his early years with a grandfather and then in an orphanage until immigrating to this country when he was fifteen. He came by himself, by boat to New Orleans, and then traveled by train to St. Louis where he spent his entire life.
Upon arrival in St. Louis he did a variety of odd jobs, and as near as I can determine, living on the streets and working as he said “for food and a place to sleep.” I have never heard of all the things he did to survive but I am sure his life was interesting in those years. A brother, Al, had immigrated earlier but could be of little help to Dad. He worked in a bank and had only recently married. There was little money for either of them.
It must have taken quite a bit for Dad to come to this country. He was the youngest of four children, three boys and a girl, and he never saw his oldest brother and his sister again in his lifetime. Communication was sparse between them and it was mainly Mom who encouraged him to write, which he seldom did. There was little family connection due to the fact that his father died when Dad was two and his mother when he was four. He was the youngest and had little memory of anyone except his grandfather.
In talking to some of the people that knew him, he was quite a character in those days, and definitely a ladies’ man. At least until he met Mom. His nickname was Bronco. Now when I heard this for the first time I wasn’t sure what it inferred, but I knew it wasn’t defining Dad as a psalms–singing churchgoer. This was born out in later years. Of course since I was his firstborn son, and as I was told, his little companion, I was dubbed “little Bronco”.
Mary (Mom) was born to Nicola Daniele and Dusolina Torrini in 1910 and, although born in this country, was conceived in Italy. Nick came to this country and went back to Italy for his wife and two other children. Mom was the youngest and seemed to lead a sheltered life as far as I can tell. She was working in a shoe factory when she met Dad. They met at a church club, and according to her, he was someone she didn’t expect to fall in love with. I really don’t think Dad was looking for a relationship with God when he met Mom either. I believe his sights were set on something more mundane.
Richard and Mary were married in 1934 at the end of the Depression. That Depression mentality stayed with them for the greater part of their lives, and to a degree, was handed down to their children. This wasn’t all bad, but by today’s standards it is a real oddity. We don’t do without much today and if we have to, it isn’t fair. We deserve everything we desire and we can’t live without things.
When Mom and Dad met he was driving a truck for a grocery company, a job he held for almost forty five years. Apart from his odd jobs when arriving in this country, he drove a truck for all of his life. First he drove for an Italian import-export company and then for a full line grocery company.
My first impressions in this life were of salamis and cheeses hanging above a sawdust floor and huge barrels of olives with the smell of olive oil permeating everything. I remember being held by my feet by Dad over a barrel of olives and being allowed to grab all the olives that my little hands could hold. Heaven! To this day my children swear that I sweat garlic and olive oil. I think they are right. I lust for the stuff! These were the War Years, and although I wasn’t aware of what really was going on, the atmosphere was tense. I remember the gold star being hung in windows and I knew this meant something important. I was more concerned with the iceman who came to deliver ice to my Grandmother’s house. He came with a horse-drawn wagon, slinging a huge hunk of ice over his shoulder resting on a burlap sack and deposited it on the doorstep. This was put on the top tray of the little brown ice-a-box (as it was referred to by my Grandmother) to cool the food. Water collected on the bottom tray on a daily schedule. Freezers were as yet unheard of. The trick was to gather the shavings of ice as the iceman cut the huge twenty five, thirty, or even fifty pounds, which was to be delivered. Or, if we were really lucky we could ride on the back of the wagon as he moved to the next house.
The milkman had the same delivery routine. A horse-drawn wagon, but his horse was more intelligent. It would move to the next house by the milkman merely whistling. There was not an abundance of cars. Only a few had them.
We were lucky Dad had one, but it wasn’t driven all the time. We only took the car out for Sunday rides and special occasions. Gas was rationed and although only 10 cents a gallon, it was hard to get.
We lived a few blocks from my Grandmother and Grandfather, my Aunt Louise and Uncle Fidelis and six first cousins. They all lived with my Grandpa and Grandma Daniels so it was easy to see almost the whole family at one time. My Aunt Julia and Uncle Louis, called Zia and Zio, were only a block away from Grandma and Grandpa’s also. It was very convenient. The only family that was seen maybe once or twice a year was my Uncle Al’s family, which consisted of his wife, Florence, and two daughters. They lived on the other end of town and were not seen except on the holidays. Grandpa was unemployed, and I think this was by choice. I only remember him working for a short time. He had better things to do. He would sit in the backyard and feed the birds and the squirrels. He would spend the fall months gathering nuts for the squirrels (as if they couldn’t do it themselves) and feed corn to the pigeons.
The shed in the backyard of Grandpa and Grandma’s housed a horse, which was owned by a ragman. This learned gentleman would traverse the alleys looking in ash pits and yelling “Rags, bottles, bones!” He housed his horse and wagon in the shed for a monthly rental fee. This was my first contact with rural life in the city. It was also my first contact with methane gas. Grandpa was well versed in the ways of nature and could tell when the horse (which at times was endowed with a great deal of flatulence) was about to release this gas into the atmosphere. He would quickly strike a match on his overalls and when placing it in the proper position behind that horse, we would all be treated to the wonders of a natural gas jet. Blue flame and all. What a wonder! Grandma did not think much of the trick at all.
Grandma spent most of her time in the kitchen, it seems. She would make a chicken soup that would curl the stomachs of most of the present populace. She made it out of fresh chicken and nothing was wasted. In went the head and feet and you could cut it with a knife if need be. But talk about healthy!
This was the fare recommended by their doctor to cure what ailed them. She would also make large loaves of polenta, which was cut with a string when it had cooled sufficiently. The Old World was always present and Italian was the language of both my grandparents. If I had known then what I know now, I would have learned the language. But Mom and Dad spoke English and since I was an American neither they nor I saw any need to speak Italian. To this day I can understand most of it, but have a difficult time speaking it.
I mentioned ash pits earlier. This was the Eighth Wonder of the World. To those who don’t know what an ash pit is I will explain. It was a square concrete bin into which furnace ashes and garbage and whatever else one did not want was thrown. It was cleaned periodically by the ash or trash man who came in a wagon and hauled it away. The trick if you were a kid was to rummage through the pit before it was cleaned out and come up with the treasures that abounded there.
This could be an old alarm clock, picture frame, piece of pipe, old pot or pan, or even something that looked so good you couldn’t pass it up even if you didn’t know what it was. When it was brought home it had to be hidden for the most part or some adult would throw it in his or her own ash pit. Many ten-minute walks home from school would take almost an hour because the route was through alleys with frequent ash pit stops. I’m sure today that kids have lost this thrill.
Another wonderful event was the game of bottle caps. The local tavern would be contacted and a bag of bottle caps would be secured at absolutely no cost. These were thrown in such a way that they would dip, slice, or flare up depending upon the way they were thrown. The trick was to hit the cap with a boom stick thus constituting a hit. Just like baseball but there were no broken windows, etc. Today I don’t believe a kid could go into a tavern without some fearing child endangerment, thinking that they only wanted a beer. The thought never crossed our minds that we could even desire a beer. That was for adults and we were too young at the time. However, things did change.
Now for cigarettes. That was something that was O.K., but they were hard to get. We had to satisfy ourselves with what was known to us then as “lady cigars.” Catalpa pods. They were dried and cut into cigarette size and smoked with great relish. They tasted terrible but we thought they were really something. I remember the time that my Aunt Louise asked if we were smoking lady cigars. When we replied to the negative she calmly led us to the back porch and told us to look on top of the shed. We had carefully cut the pods, and looking for a place to dry them, laid them out symmetrically on top of the shed where they were quite visible to the naked eye from the second story where my cousins lived. We were undone. “We” most of the time was my older male cousin who was one of the six cousins with whom I spent most of my time.
Where I lived was, in those days, considered a very high-class place. The streets were lined with trees and the houses consisted of single-family dwellings and four family flats. We lived in a four family flat with three rooms, consisting of living room, bedroom, and kitchen. Very cozy, to say the least. I really wonder how Mom and Dad had more children after me. Maybe that is the reason for four-year intervals between us all…it took a lot of guts and a great deal of planning to do the DEED since everyone slept in the same room. I moved to the living room foldout couch when I was fifteen. Boy, my own room – complete with a television and living room furniture!! Until then I was on a cot and my sisters were in a bunk bed.
There was no one my age within a couple of blocks of us so I spent a lot of time by myself. Mom was very protective and I could not go more than six houses in ether direction from our front door. This was in a safer day than we live in today. I was twelve before I could cross a major street. My cousin was crossing it at nine. I was really embarrassed but Mom would not give in to my pleadings at letting me grow up by at least crossing the street.
The main entertainment in our home in those days was, of course, the radio. After supper Dad would sit back in the easy chair, and when Mom was finished with the dishes (as we got older my sister and I did them with a great deal of fighting, as I remember) she would sit in the living room with Dad. At about 7 p.m. the entire family would retire and turn on the radio in the bedroom. At 9 p.m. it would be shut off and we were all expected to dutifully go to sleep. Dad got up at 5 a.m., so when he went to sleep we all went to sleep.
I don’t remember very many major traumas during those early years. I was not allowed to do very many things that other children my age were doing. First, there were not very many children my age, and secondly, Mom was very protective of me. Fighting with others was definitely not allowed, and even if I were picked on I would get in trouble if I fought back. Dad did not agree and taught me how to box. In fact, he even gave me a set of boxing gloves for my birthday when I was seven. The word got out in the neighborhood that the little Dago could not fight. So naturally, I was fair game. This did change after I disregarded my Mother’s injunction and won a pretty good fight with a neighborhood bully. No one really bothered me too much again.
The major upset in those years came one Sunday afternoon when Mom and Dad and I went to an air show at Lambert Field. There was to be a demonstration of parachuting and some of the latest air equipment of the day that was winning the war. This was, I believe, 1943 or 1944. I remember this even so clearly that it seems like yesterday. The DC-3’s came over the field and little white dots began to fall out from its sides. Paratroopers!! In real life! What a thrill and event for me. The excitement was building. Next on the program was to be a glider flight carrying the mayor and chaplain and some other dignitaries. A glider, of course, is an airplane without an engine. It was made of wood and towed behind a power-driven aircraft. When it was over its target, the towrope would be released and the glider would noiselessly glide to an open area delivering its cargo of men and machinery. It could not be picked up on radar because of its wooden construction and was becoming an important factor in the European war theater.
I can still see the dignitaries boarding the aircraft with the DC-3 taxiing down the runway, glider in tow. Both became airborne and flew away from the field becoming smaller as the distance increased. Then, circling, they began to head back to the field releasing the towrope as they passed overhead. As the rope fell from the glider’s nose, and it separated from the airplane, something went wrong. One wing tilted crazily upward and began to drift down to earth while the main body of the craft began to spiral down erratically, crashing into the runway around fifteen thousand yards from were we stood. The impact threw pieces of wood and debris in all directions and it was evident even to this young mind that no one could have lived through this.
The screams of people all around me still echo in my ears, as much as the visual trauma hangs in my memory. This event left its impact upon me for many years and still plays a part in my dislike of flying. Mom was particularly hysterical, as I remember, for the next couple days, although Dad took a calmer attitude. I think it bothered him but he did not let on. His English heritage did not allow Dad to demonstrate much emotion or feeling. This was something that I had to learn over the years.
As I recall it was at about this time that I expressed desire to be Pope. It seems that Pope Pius XII was born in March and since my birthday was in March, I came up with the idea that this might be my calling. There was much laughter about it by Uncles, Aunts and Dad, but as I recall, Mom was almost ecstatic. Yes, she said, I certainly could be Pope. After all, I was Italian. Do you get the idea that Mom was sort of religious and bigoted in those days? I believe it was my Uncle Fidelis who said that the word was not pope, but spelled with two o’s, and I had already made the grade. Mom did not care for this too much.
I don’t know how many people remember Victory Gardens, but I do. This was part of winning the war by growing your own food so that the men overseas could be taken care of. We planted radishes, lettuce, and beans for sure, but I don’t remember anything else that we could survive on. Looking back on it I believe it was more propaganda than a reality. We did have our own chicken that laid an egg now and then. This, I really thought, was great. It was kept in the garage behind the house but I don’t remember it lasting too long either. Dad was not much on livestock and pets. I wonder what became of it – Sunday dinner?
As far as food went, since there wasn’t much refrigeration, most items were bought on a daily basis and it was pretty much fresh. Mom or Grandma would go to the market, which was several blocks away and purchase what was needed for the next few days. Meat was kept on ice, as were some other perishables. We had a small Crosley refrigerator that was electric, but it didn’t hold much. I guess you could call it primitive by today’s standards.
On Sundays my Zia and Zio, Julia and Louis, would sometimes take us to buy fresh produce and chickens directly from the farm. This was usually someone that Zio Louis knew and had fished in their pond or hunted mushrooms on their place. He was a great mushroom hunter. It seems that this was his main claim to fame – that and the fact that he could play the guitar in his underwear and sing Calabrese folk songs and drink at the same time. He was also very astute at catching pigeons on the roof of his house and had Zia Julia cook them for us kids. This was akin to having our own little chicken or turkey. It wasn’t until later that I realized how bad they really tasted. It is amazing how childhood clouds reality at times.
I can still remember the red fat hens that were brought home from those trips to the country. They seem to represent the horn of plenty, and they were not treated lightly. Their demise was a wonder to behold. Grandpa would dispatch them with a twist of the wrist, which could seem cruel to some. Mom on the other hand, was much more delicate in her treatment of dispatch. She was only 4’ 11” and not very heavily built. And according to her, she did not have the ability or moral fiber to be so cruel to a bird, even though it was to be a meal for her family. She, instead, would very delicately place a broomstick upon the hapless victim’s neck, and then, grabbing its feet, stand on the broomstick yanking with a force that was worthy of King Kong. Needless to say, the chicken was a goner but it still provided us with the erratic flapping and bouncing, which to us kids, was the main event of the entire procedure. This activity of execution was carried on in the basement so no one could really know of my Mother’s prowess with the broomstick. To this day I’m not really sure if she enjoyed it or merely acted the part of doing what needed to be done to feed the family.
The basement of our home was different from what one would call a basement today. It had a coal bin. Now, for those who have no knowledge of coal or how it was used, let me describe the coal bin, furnace, and concomitant paraphernalia. Coal came in various grades. There was the briquette, much like the charcoal briquette we buy today, and there was a larger chunk than the briquette. These two were relatively easy to shovel and handle. As such they were more expensive than the type that we could afford. This was the boulder size block of coal that needed to be broken up to fit in the furnace. These huge blocks of black rock were dumped in the street in front of the house, and it was up to the resident to put it in the coal bin. If you were rich, the coal man would wheelbarrow it to the coal bin for you. This was not our lot, of course. Dad would wheel the coal into the coal bin, with me helping in a very small way, since the coal was sometimes bigger than me (or so it seemed). When it was time to be used he would break up the large boulders with a hammer, sending coal dust all over. I’m sure it is a miracle that not one of us contracted black lung disease by this procedure.
The furnace itself was a huge monster with arms extending in all directions. These arms, as I learned later, were the air pipes that radiated the hot air through the house.
A fire was started with paper and wood, and then when they were burning sufficiently, lumps of coal would be shoveled upon it. Once caught, the coal would burn for several hours and as it burned it would leave its ashes in the bottom portion of the furnace. Hence, the ash pit was one of my first jobs around the house. “Take out the ashes” was the cry that would send terror through my body. It was heavy work and not like taking out the trash today that kids still hate doing even though it may only weigh a fraction of coal ashes. In later years the furnace was converted to oil and it did have a convenience to it, but those early furnace years could leave you with a sense of self-sufficiency. You had to always watch for the furnace going out (which then made it very hard to light again) because it didn’t take long for the house to get cold. Even though it was banked at night, it needed to be attended to by 5 a.m. next morning and then again during the day. This was either Mom’s or my job.
The hot water heater was something also. It was a round canister with tubing running circularly through it. It had a bank of gas jets and pilot light. When the pilot light was lit and the bank of jets ignited, the coil that contained water would be heated. This really did not put out a great deal of hot water fast, and baths with hot water were duly regulated. Most of the time water was heated upon the gas stove, one pot at a time. In those coal-burning days one of the most important things for a kid to remember was to scrape off the black dust before you ate the snow. I guess we have progressed in our environmental development, but in those days you could at least see what was not good for you.
I feel sorry for the folks who never experienced the pungent smell of piles of burning leaves in the gutters of the streets in the fall. It was not only a beautiful sight and one which brought neighbors outside to chat, but the pall of smoke did not smell half as bad as the diesel smoke prevalent today in our streets. I honestly don’t think leaf burning was as bad as it is supposed to have been.
There is another thing that we miss today, the neighborhood gatherings on the front porches. Every evening after supper, weather permitting, the inhabitants of the houses and flats would sit on the front porch and exchange the events of the day. Perhaps one family would migrate to the neighbor’s for the evening, and the next evening they would switch locations. The adults would sit on the porch while the children played catch in the street or on the sidewalk, or played tag and hide and seek. There was a sense of community that is not present today for the most part. Everyone knew who was where, and whose kid was whose, and what he or she was doing or what he or she was not supposed to be doing. The grapevine or jungle drums of the neighborhood could not be beaten for keeping a young hellion from raising Cain around the neighborhood. Talk about neighborhood watch! I remember thumbing my nose at Roseanne Capp a couple of houses up the street one day. Before the sun set, my Mother knew about it and I was chastised for doing something dirty. Can you believe it? I didn’t even know what it meant but I was told what a dirty thing that was to do.
I wonder what would have happened to me if I had given her the bird!! (Of course, I had no idea of what that was either.)
There we lived was pretty close to the city limit. Six or seven blocks away were the beginnings of what we would call today, the suburbs. This consisted of small towns and houses with a lot of space between them. Not like where we lived. It seemed like once you got out of the city limit you were in the country. A block away from us was a family that had goats, and my earliest recollection in the mornings was being awakened by their bleating. This was an oddity and it didn’t last too long as the neighborhood developed.
Healing
I have always wanted the gift of physical healing, just like a child wanting all the candy in the world. That is one of the major reasons for becoming a counselor or counseling psychologist. When the awareness came that we are Spirits having a Human experience and not the other way around, I realized that I would be a healer of the spirit or the mind and that would heal the body also. This is true, but it seems that I have also been given the gift of physical healing. This is hard for me to admit, but the Lord does use the strange things of this world to manifest His glory. (He couldn’t find anyone stranger than me, that’s for sure.) It had never really dawned upon me that the healing of the spirit is the most important element in the healing process, both physically and emotionally or spiritually. It has taken the writing of this book to realize fully what healing really means.
Jesus healed many people. Some got healed and left, never to be heard from again. Everyone wanted a physical healing in His time. Some were healed and began following Him. Some got the point on who He was and why He was manifesting the Father’s Love. Others did not. His healings did not necessarily turn the healed to the Father because the healed person’s spirit was focused, perhaps, on the physical and not the reason behind it. It seems that the reason for physical healing must be the healing of the spirit since we are spirits having this human experience.
A good friend and I were talking one day and he mentioned that the apostles were good salesmen. It hit me later (I didn’t think much about it at the time) what he meant. They were selling Jesus to the world. Of course the Holy Spirit was helping them as the Spirit works through humans too. The miracles that Jesus manifested are not listed in all the gospels. There are some that seem to be related to Old Testament numbers. I believe that the Loaves and Fishes number may refer to the tribes of Israel. This does not mean that Jesus did not perform miraculous events all the time.
I don’t believe miracles have to be instantaneous. They happen all the time. Look around at nature and wonder at the miracles taking place every season of the year. Consider the miracle of Life itself.
All healing is a healing of the spirit, no matter whether it is physical or emotional, for if it is a true healing the whole person is healed. We have all seen physically healthy individuals who are spiritually in need of a healing. Their personality or spiritual side is hurting and they can really be people we do not care to be around. We have also seen physically sick or diseased people whose spirits are absolutely beautiful and healthy and who manifest the goodness of God despite their physical pain or deformity or disease. I have been told that in my work, I, as it were, “cut to the chase” because I heal the spirit directly without concern for the body. This is not totally true because the healing must be integral. As the ancient Greeks said, “A sound mind in a sound body.” This is what the ideal should be and is to be the goal of all healing.
Hopefully, the body and mind complement each other to result in a total healing.
In a physical healing the spirit must also be healed for it to be a genuine healing event. By that I mean that when the body becomes healed, the mind or soul or spirit must also have a healing that takes place. For example, if someone has a miraculous healing take place in his or her body, the spiritual healing might be that there is a greater awareness and proclamation of the glory of God’s goodness. This could even be manifested by the person changing his attitude toward his fellow man (e.g., they become more kind and compassionate). Therefore, ALL healing is directed to the goal of becoming more Godlike.
Often times people noted for their healing ability declare that the one seeking the healing must have faith that they will be healed. I feel that this is erroneous. FAITH IN A GOD THAT CAN HEAL OR NOT HEAL IS NECESSARY but not in a GOD WHO HEALS EVERY TIME HE IS CALLED UPON.
A great amount of guilt is laid upon individuals who are told that since they are not healed they didn’t have enough faith. This is the minister’s cop-out. I also feel that it isn’t necessary to scream and holler when praying for healing. It is related, at times, that when Jesus healed he sighed, looked to heaven and asked the Father for the healing. I don’t think he screamed and hollered at anytime for the healing, but what do I know! I didn’t realize that spiritual healing was more important than physical. Both are important, only one is necessary.
In praying with a man for the physical healing of lung cancer which seemed to be leading to imminent death, I saw the lung cancer tissue renew itself, and one would think that this would be the physical healing desired. Wrong. Instead of the cancer being eliminated the man I prayed with found peace within him and desired to go on to the other side, dying peacefully in the transition, telling me ahead of time that I had done my job because he was ready to meet the Lord. Had my prayer failed? No. It did achieve the purpose for which it was allowed to be by the Lord.
Of course, in my naiveté or basic ignorance, I felt that I had failed. But the Lord forgives me – I’m new at the game! This was an actual case, and I learned a lot from it.
In another case, the person was so depressed and had no incentive to live that death seemed to be right around the corner. For months he had lain in a hospital bed unable to move and really didn’t care about anything. The depression, of course was mental or emotional, but the fact of immobility was physical. After several months of weekly prayer, and sometimes twice a week, the patient began to move his limbs, imperceptibly at first, but then more and more until he was in a wheelchair and going home.
This patient and I had been friends for years and we knew each other pretty well. One day after praying with him, he opened his eyes and declared that he had seen the Light. I looked at the window and seeing that the shades were drawn, told him so. He declared emphatically and in no uncertain terms, “ THE LIGHT, STUPID! THE LIGHT!!!!!”
From that time on I was certainly being educated by the LORD in healing prayer. I really am a slow learner. Thank God He uses dummies.
Speaking of dummies let me tell the conclusion of this healing event. Pat, the patient, did go home and was very happy about it. Life became somewhat normal for him, which is what he desired. I hadn’t heard from him for a couple of months, so one day I called him and got the answering machine. It was his voice on the machine so I left the message, “Well, you sound like your old self. I am happy to see you are not dead! Call me when you can.” I got a call back from his wife, Judy, who informed me that Pat had died in his sleep LAST NIGHT. He had a heart attack and was very peaceful. Even I couldn’t believe the Lord would allow this dummy to do what I did!!
The events (beginning to pray with people) began three years ago when I went to a seminar with two friends of mine who were also desirous of having a healing ministry. I had really not given physical healing much thought for the past several years. A lot of years in fact.
This was to be something new, my friend thought, and was sure that the Lord wanted him and me to attend this seminar in Kansas City. I finally relented and decided to go after some promptings from the Lord, I think. The seminar was on how to get into the energy of the person being prayed with, releasing the energy that brings healing, something of that nature. No words were to be spoken and this was not to be any religious experience for the one praying or the one being prayed with. During the course of the seminar and in the hands-on experiences there were some feelings of energetic movement. Basically, I was not impressed but I had heard of this type of energy healing and thought it might be useful in my therapy practice. I did make some adjustments to it which I will reveal very quietly. I USED THE NAME OF JESUS AND PRAYED IN HIS NAME TO THE FATHER!!!! This was after I left the seminar and was on my own.
On the way home from the Kansas City seminar, I visited my son and daughter-in-law who, a couple of weeks earlier, had their first-born son.
Since the delivery was horrendous my daughter-in-law was still in terrible pain throughout her entire body. An OB friend of mine, who I consulted with about the situation, declared that there could be months of pain before she would feel better. This was not the good news I was looking for. When I got to my son’s home, my daughter-in-law was still in bed, where she had spent the last several weeks, unable to do much of anything. “Well,” I thought, “why not give the stuff I had just been exposed to a try.” I began to move my hands over her body at a height of about six to eight inches. Moving from the top of her head to the tip of her toes and at times making a circular motion as I had been shown.
Nothing happened. No miracle here. Even though I had invoked the name of Jesus and had asked the Father in His Name and in the name of the HOLY SPIRIT to heal this woman, it didn’t work. I had given her some hope, but no cigar. Just as I thought, I didn’t have the gift. I gave everyone a hug and left for home.
That was Sunday evening and on Monday I heard nothing. On Tuesday my son called and said Carolyn, my daughter-in-law, wanted to speak with me. It seemed that on Monday she had no pain and was so normal that she didn’t think much about it until her mother asked how she was feeling. That is when it hit her that the prayer worked. WOW!!! I didn’t know what to think but praised God and I was truly amazed even more than anyone else. I guess I can be a doubting Thomas too. But in my defense, this was the first occasion that a healing actually took place. From that time on the confidence has been building. Not in my own ability, but in the belief that I have been around when the LORD had worked HIS WONDERS. It is a very humbling experience for me. I am sure it will always be humbling for me to see God work. My faith needs building constantly and He knows it.
Shortly after this experience, perhaps within a few months, I was at a family gathering with most of the family. Grandchildren were all over the place, or so it seemed. One of the youngsters was running along the poolside when he slipped and fell, hitting his elbow.
I was inside and did not see it happen, but when his mother carried him in and sat him down, I could see the elbow swollen already to the size of a baseball. At the time, I must admit that something possessed me to tell her to let me hold him. She did so, and I put my hand on Garrett’s swollen elbow while she went to get ice because she thought it might even be broken. Within seconds, but at the most a minute, the swollen elbow lost the swelling and became normal sized. My daughter-in-law was sitting across from me and her eyes were as big as saucers. She had witnessed it also. Again, WOW! In about ten minutes my grandson was outside by the pool playing as if nothing had happened. My life was beginning to change. Here was proof that I may not have done fantastic miracles, but something was indeed going on in my life. Healing touch? I don’t care what you call it, God is around and doing something. Again, I am honored. There have been more healing touch experiences, e.g. frozen thumb moving, touch on the forehead to relieve fever and some things which I cannot remember at this time. They may seem to be small to some, but to me the manifestation of God’s Power is always a humbling thrill.
I have felt more like a healer in my counseling. In counseling psychology, the healing of the spirit of the person or the soul is very satisfying. When the spirit is healed the person is really healed and it is not just a matter of physical activity. The symptoms are not considered as much as the mind is healed which prevents the symptoms from overtaking the person. It seems to me that this is what Jesus was most concerned with. He healed the spirit of the person by declaring that we are all children of One God, the Father. If we were always aware of that fact then the symptoms and the diseases of the world and of relationships would be nil.
The healer’s job then is to actually become more like Jesus. The main thrust of the healing is to reveal the Father and His mercy to the individual, just as it was the primary focus of the life of Jesus. We have believed, it seems that the main or primary reason for Jesus was a healing ministry of the sick of the world.
This may not be the case. We have focused on His miraculous healings which may or may not have occurred depending upon the writer’s perspective. If the Father wills it, the miraculous healing will take place. This is evident when Jesus always asks the Father first when He prays for a person. When the Father wills it the miraculous healing takes place. When He does not, the miracle does not take place. This is another reason for some people being miraculously healed and some not. The job of the healer, then, is still to reveal the Father and His Fatherhood to all men, and to pronounce that all men are to be children of the One God. We are not children of the evil in the world.
Miraculous healing does not change a person interiorly or perfect their spiritual life of necessity. Some are healed of their afflictions and still do not accept at a later time the Fatherhood of God. We sometimes forget what happened by the momentary joy of the healing process. Miraculous physical healing need not to be the primary focus of the healer, but the acceptance of the fact that God alone is the Father and healer the primary focus is the turning of the healed soul to God the Father. Looked at this way, it is evident that miraculous healing can be a detriment to the real reason for a healing, and that reason is the turning of the soul to the Father. Sometimes people may focus on the physical to the detriment of the spiritual. This may be the reason that working wonders cannot be foremost in individuals turning to God. Is it possible that some of the miracles attributed to Jesus were not miraculous healings but somehow natural events that were mistaken by the apostles as miracles? Everything that Jesus said and did was to demonstrate to all that the One God, His Father, was the Father of us all. In that contains the reasoning that we are all brothers as children of One God.
BOTTOM LINE: No one knows why one is healed and another is not, for no one knows the mind or mystery of God.
When we pray for a healing, we desire to see the results with our human minds, but we must allow for the fact that the healing may take place in the spiritual realm which we cannot see.