SMALL MIRACLE

“And the prayer of faith will save the one who is sick, and the Lord will raise him up. And if he has committed sins, he will be forgiven.”

James 5:15

A woman on a mission, I wrote as if my life depended upon the completion of the book. During this time I talked more openly to the teens about some of my experiences, including the spiritual warfare. It was interesting to have them reveal their own stories and find a sense of relief that I would share mine.

During a Diocesan youth minister's retreat I shared openly with my small group and for the first time I had adults listen. I could see they didn't think I was crazy or judge me. Instead they all encouraged me to keep talking about my story. A few invited me out to their youth groups to share what I'd been through.

Then the big break came and I was asked to speak at an ecumenical event in front of 800 middle school and high school teenagers. I couldn't help but think about Brian and his message. "Tell your story.”

Am I bold enough? The thought of getting up in front of twenty-five let alone 800 made my knees weak and stomach churn. There was no way I could manage to do this.

In the midst of writing about the deepest spiritual attack within my college years and faced with the fear of speaking in public I heard the lies. You are not good enough. Don't do it, they'll be bored. No one really believes you.

God help me. I was tired of the battle. I went to Barnes & Noble and searched and searched for a book or something to help validate the occurrences I’d been through with spiritual warfare.

I tapped my fingers impatiently on the spines of a row of books.

“That’s a good book.” A gentleman in a suit pointed to one of the books I tapped.

“Yes, I’ve read it as well. It’s good but I’m looking on a book for spiritual warfare.”

“Really? I know exactly who you need to see. Dr. Pat Carter. He’s an expert on the subject.” He pulled a business card from his wallet and a pin from his breast pocket. “Here is his number.” He scribbled a number on the back of the card.

Stunned I took the car. “Funny. I was just asking God to help.”

“Well I guess that makes me your divine appointment then.”

I nodded in agreement and left the bookstore. It took me a few minutes before I realized what had taken place. God placed him in my path.

I called the number and Dr. Pat picked up on the second ring. “I was given your number by Mr.” I flipped the card over to get the name. “Mr. Heines. He said you some things on spiritual warfare?”

“Ah yes, yes of course. I’ve been teaching on the subject for over thirty years. Why don’t we meet to talk about it.”

This is when I found out he lived at the edge of my street. I asked God for help and He gave me someone within walking distance.

A spirit of goodness and joy permeated through Dr. Pat. His eyes lit up when he opened the door. “Hello Shannon. Come in. Come in.”

He moved with ease. Despite his thick white hair there was nothing about him to give testament to his age.

Framed pictures of men and women closer to my parent’s age filled the room along with pictures of teenagers, toddlers, and babies. In one the entire family was together, from the looks of it close to thirty. He’s old enough to be my grandfather. Tension and nervousness that built up in my shoulders calmed down and I relaxed.

“You are a young woman. What brings you to wanting to know more about spiritual warfare?”

What do I say? I see spirits? I see demons? I feel evil? Strange people give me messages and at the same time fight back an urge to hurt me? I froze.

He smiled and his mustache curled into his nose. “Do you experience things that you can’t explain?”

He gets it. I swallowed. “Yes. It’s really hard to talk about because I’ve not told any one everything that I’ve seen. I feel like I’m crazy sometimes.”

“Oh, you’re not crazy.” He leaned back in his chair. “I lived in Mexico for thirty years and helped counsel many people who’ve seen demons.” He explained a few stories of others who’d experienced similar to what I had.

“I know exactly what you’re talking about.” He gets it. He gets me. I allowed everything to spill forth like a dam that burst. It felt good to tell it again. I’d told Fr. Borski most of it but this time I didn’t hold anything back.

Dr. Pat scooted his chair up close to mine so that our knees touched. He took my hands in his and looked me in the eyes. “You are not crazy. The enemy nips at your heels because he doesn’t want you to bring others closer to God. This is a battle you’ll fight for the rest of your life on earth. Let’s pray together.”

We met at least once or twice a month to pray together or to talk about the progress of the book. We became friends and he talked to me about his projects and I would in turn pray over him.

Between meeting with Dr. Pat on spiritual warfare and my spiritual advisor, a Monsignor priest who was retired and living at the seminary in Houston, I had plenty of spiritual guidance and encouragement to be bold in the statement God had given me through my life.

Being bold in my marriage remained a struggle. I searched for every opportunity that would give Neal and I a chance to grow spiritually together. When Neal agreed to attend a Theology of the Body seminar put on by Christopher West I was shocked.

“Whatever, I’ll go.”

I knew he did it to appease me, possibly shut me up, and that was fine.

Theology of the Body is a series of encyclicals (talks) given by Pope John Paul II to a young adult audience. The focus was on the gift of our spirituality, the gift of sex and God's intention for us as man and woman.

We heard the same talks in the same seminar but we left with a different takeaway.

I appreciated Christopher discussing the importance of the man respecting a woman's body and the sacredness of what God created, that a woman should not be demeaned by pornography, strip joints, and the like. He discussed the gift of intercourse between a husband and wife. I longed for what he described, but deep inside I felt a pang of shame and guilt. There was something I couldn’t give voice to that kept me from receiving such a gift.

Neal, on the other hand, left halfway through the full day seminar. He mumbled something about his stomach giving him issues and, knowing we knew others there, someone would give him a ride home. So he left. When I got home I found a note:

Shannon:

First I would like to say I'm sorry for all you might have gone through and I'm sorry if I was not there in the capacity you needed me to be. After listening to Christopher West I could not have felt anymore ashamed of my behavior and attitude about what you might have gone through in the past.

I was very selfish if I ever did anything but lend support or helped you with your problems in any way other than complaining. A lot of what I heard and learned hit a certain spot in my heart. I know I am a good person but there is so much more I can be and do for us and our family. I do want that kind of relationship with you and would love more than anything for you to be happy and comfortable with me in a marital way.

I know it's not easy for you but I will do what I can to make you comfortable. I have been blessed in so many ways, yet I feel horrible about a lot of things and I will do anything to get us on the same page with our lives. I am not a sex fiend by any stretch of the imagination but I can accept I view certain things certain ways and hopefully, with your help, I can grow from this and strengthen our relationship.

I do love you very much and I truly want the best for us. I will admit I sometimes feel taken advantage of but I can also attribute that to selfish reasons and I am doing my best to overcome all of my shortcomings. You will need to bear with me because there are a lot of them and it will take time. I love you and hope you enjoyed the seminar and got from it what you needed. It was a lot for me to take in.

Please don't hesitate to be open with me and let me in on what's going on in your mind. I might not agree with you 100% of the time but I do love you and I will do my best to help out.

Love,

Neal

Neal never ceased to amaze me. When I felt he had every right to walk out the door he showed his vulnerability. This note gave me a sense of strength and courage in knowing we were doing something right.

I felt encouraged and ready for God to speak through me to 800 teenagers. Six weeks before the event was to take place I ran into a medical issue I could no longer ignore. Cursed with heavy and painful menstrual cycles from the moment I hit puberty, they were now debilitating. Often I would come home an hour or two before picking up the boys from school because I couldn't keep my eyes open. The loss of blood left me anemic and void of energy. It was a miracle I was worked with teens because my energy levels were at an extreme low. The teens helped keep me going.

In a vulnerable position, with my feet in stirrups I was given the news. “You’re hemorrhaging. You need a hysterectomy,” Dr. Gunther, my new gynecologist, informed me. “Even if you were to get pregnant your uterus would not be able to hold the pregnancy.”

Even if. She didn’t know for the past two years I secretly hoped Neal’s vasectomy was unsuccessful. My periods were so erratic I would bleed for months and then not bleed at all, which led me to purchase pregnancy tests and then be faced with the obvious fact I had made the decision to never see a plus sign again.

But I didn’t know I would come to a place of letting go of the rage that held me prisoner. And I didn’t know I would be led to a place of understanding as the truth of the Catholic Church’s teaching became clearer. It was slow at first, but in time I embraced the religion that nurtured my faith. Three years before I didn’t know I’d be led to a job within the Catholic church, to have a priest as a boss, and feel compelled to confess I asked Neal to do the vasectomy. I couldn’t blame Neal for refusing a reversal because of the pain he’d endured the first time around.

I did not foresee the devastating ache I’d have inside when I saw a little girl hold onto her daddy’s hand and realize I kept Neal from knowing that kind of love, or how incomplete my family would feel.

Like it was a quick and an insignificant procedure. I sat up worried Dr. Gunther would go right in and yank it out. I was thirty-one years old. It was significant. There was no going back on past mistakes and making things right. It meant my family would be complete as is. I had no options. I was given two weeks to get prepared, prepped and in surgery for a permanent life change.

I sat in my car after the appointment. The white painted lines of the parking spaces came together as my vision blurred. I thought about the youth ministry job God led me into only a year after making the decision to have the vasectomy and the dozens of times I heard ‘when are you going to have another baby’ and shrugged in answer swallowing back the hypocrisy. Now you won’t have to lie to the teens.

Another deep pain cut through my chest. I prayed. You called me into that job. I told you I was the last person you wanted because of all I’ve been through and done. For one brief second I allowed the obvious thought to escape. This is what I deserve.

God answered in my heart. “I bring good from everything. You are a nurturer to the teens and to your children. Trust in my plan.”

The timing, despite the devastating situation, was impeccable. I would have the surgery, stay one night, and then recoup at home for six weeks. Which was one week before the keynote.

The surgery went without complications. I was allergic to anesthesia medicine, which made me nauseated. I threw up for the first few hours after coming out of the fog.

Neal brought me home and I did as instructed: I lay on the couch and didn't move. Friends from church brought over meals and the teens had pitched in to get me an iPod, which was the newest gadget at the time. I never felt more loved and taken care of than I did in those first few days of recovery. It took my mind off the void within me. The teens kept me from curling up in a ball in my room exhausted in tears. A baby will never grow inside of me again.

Despite the decision for Neal to undergo a vasectomy four years before I held out hope a miracle would occur and God would reverse my decision. At the time it felt the right decision. Mentally I couldn’t fathom a child. That was then.

Neal and I were two different people then. We’d matured, suffered through a major drought in our marriage, and finally in a good, compatible place. Plus, I was calmer, no longer flying off the handle as much as I used to, the hostility waned. I no longer feared I would harm my children in any way.

But it wasn't to be. I knew within my spirit this was a blessing. God said, don’t let this be of a concern to you. You have your family and your church family, trust me in your path.

Five days post-surgery I ended up back in the hospital. We’d eaten a scrumptious Italian meal of sausage and peppers brought by one of the families of the teens I ministered. Neal sat at my feet as I lay recovering on the couch and the kids tucked in bed. My stomach gurgled and my palms got pasty.

“I don’t feel too good.” I sat up.

“What do you need?” Neal go off the couch and stood in front of me.

“I feel dizzy.” The floor loomed up in my vision and then faded away.

“Let me get you some TUMS and you go to bed.” He pulled me off the couch and directed me to our bedroom.

I stumbled my way into the room and lay down. Beads of sweat fell off my chin and I felt the drops hit my chest.

Neal walked into the room with a bottle of water and the TUMS. “You aren’t looking too great. You sure you’re okay?”

I swallowed back the urge to vomit. “Maybe it was the sausage.” I took the TUMS with the rest of my medications and tried to get some sleep. A case of shivers coursed through my body and this time I couldn’t swallow the need to vomit. I didn’t make it to the bathroom.

Neal heard the commotion from the living room.

When he saw me he gagged. “Oh.”

He left the room and came back with a thermometer.

I’d managed to crawl to the toilet.

“Let’s take your temperature.”

It was 103.

“You need to go to the hospital.”

“How? Who’ll watch the boys? We don’t need to get them up.”

“Shannon, you can’t wait till morning. Call Christina. I’ll get your cell.”

Christina was the assistant youth minister and didn’t have children. It was late in the night and she answered on the first ring. “Hello?”

“Hey, sorry to call you so late.” I gagged and held the phone away. The contents in my stomach wouldn’t stay down.

“Shannon? Shannon? Hello?”

Neal came in with a wet washcloth and wiped my mouth.

“Could you take me to the hospital? Something’s going on and we don’t want to get the boys out of bed.”

“Oh my gosh. Yes of course. I’m on my way.”

It took thirty minutes on a normal day to get downtown to the Women’s Hospital of Texas. We got there in fifteen. I held onto a trash bag and apologized every time I had to use it.

“It’s okay. You don’t look so good.”

“I feel as bad as I look then.”

A week later I wrote about the ordeal in my journal:

Tuesday, March 7, 2006

This morning’s reading from the devotional my mom gave me in the hospital says, "Today let the direction of your life be guided by God's hand."

I smile because I believed it before, but I LIVE it now. And when I mean 'before' I mean just last week.

So much has gone on in this past week, writing it down is my testament to God. When I went in for the hysterectomy all was good. I came home, everything was healing well, no problems except for a bit of cabin fever.

Then Monday rolled around and that evening I was restless. I knew something was wrong. At about 1am the nausea kicked in and by 3am I was vomiting profusely. At 4am Chris (the assistant youth minister) came to get me and take me back to the hospital. After suffering the long ride I made it to the treatment center convulsing, shaking, begging them to 'knock me out'.

After three tries with an IV a line was finally inserted and the nausea brought to a calm - not gone- but calm. Then X-rays, ultrasounds, and my doctor checking me internally. Everything was fine.

Perplexed, the doctors had no idea what was wrong. There was no fever and the white blood count was normal.

By Wednesday (Tuesday I was delirious and don't recall the entire day) I was discharged. By the time I got home I felt odd again. That night I ran a fever and on Thursday had an extreme case of diarrhea and my temperature kept rising above 101. It took all afternoon before I relented. I needed to call the doctor. She ordered me back to the hospital and I was admitted once again.

This time I had a high white blood cell count of 22,000 when the normal count is 10,000 which meant there was an infection somewhere inside. My fever wouldn't drop below 101 and my side hurt.

Friday morning I was sent in for a CT scan. That was not fun. Drinking the barium was like drinking liquid hell. Having then to go for the scan, have an enema inserted into my rectum, and hold it for 30 minutes was a chore to say the least. Yet, I kept a smile on my face. Peace. I felt a calming peace that kept me certain I would be fine. The nurses and doctors did their job so I felt like there was no need to complain.

Once I was back in my room I finally heard the results - appendicitis.

What?! I laughed aloud. God had a sense of humor. So, really, what was I to do or say? Nothing could change it. I wasn't dying. I had to live with the fact I was going to be cut on and go through another recovery but many more people suffered worse news.

Everyone was called to pray. My mom rushed down from Dallas to be by my side, God bless her. At 8pm I realized I was not having surgery until the next morning. At 10:30pm the surgeon came in and explained what the CT scan really showed. It was NOT appendicitis. I had an infection that had formed a pocket over my appendix and a part of my bowel. At the moment it was contained but explained why the mega doses of antibiotics were not bringing my white blood cell count down. He said it would be a delicate procedure to remove the infection. He would have to cut me open and extract the infection, the appendix, and possibly a part of my bowel. If that was the case I could end up with a colostomy bag. I would have staples, a drainage tube, the whole nine yards.

Not fun.

But, my way of handling uncomfortable moments and news was through humor. So I asked the doctor if he could give me a tummy tuck while he was in there. He was shocked I could kid him. "What can I say? I'm not dying."

Surgery was scheduled for 7am. At 3:30am a nurse came in to take some blood. At 6am my surgeon came in and explained they were taking me for more X-rays. Back in my room at 7am I wondered why I wasn't being prepped for surgery. Then all three doctors entered who had worked with me, my OB-GYN, the surgeon and the infectious disease doctor.

They stood at the foot of my bed. One of the surgeons’ spoke up. "You are something else."

I smiled. “What do you mean?”

"Overnight your white blood cell count went from 22,000 to 10,000. This sudden drop does not usually happen. Which is why we took more X-rays. They show the infection has diminished from the bowel and appendix. We don't need to operate."

Praise be to God!

Ah, I can't help but cry thinking about the glory of God in heaven and all the people who prayed for me. Their prayers were answered! I am still humbled to think so many prayed and I wanted them to know God listened to them.

I stayed in the hospital until Sunday night on IV antibiotics. Here I am at home a little weak, a little tired but doing great because I didn't have surgery! They said the infection is still there but going away and I still have to heal from the hysterectomy but now I can make it for the keynote.

God taught me a lot this past week. I realize how I don't want to get any praise - truly. I've felt it before but I know it now. All of those parishioners, friends, coworkers, and all the teens - they all had faith and prayed for me. I want them to have a heavenly host come upon them and raise them up. And God, oh, what work he did to answer them, all of his angels fighting the demons that tried so hard to knock me down. Praise God!

It's not a wonder that I got home on Sunday night and suffered through a terrible attack of the enemy. I was weak but my weakness is still covered by the blood of the lamb Jesus Christ.

I prayed.

Christ prevailed.

My prayer partner, Dr. Pat, came over Monday morning and we prayed together to dispel the enemy. I am at peace. This last week was a fight, a battle, on many levels but God took the chance to show his truth.

Thank you, thank you, thank you Lord. Holy, holy, holy is your name.

A little weak and still healing I managed to deliver the keynote, "God's Plan for Your Life" to the 800 middle school and high school students. Unbeknownst to me a man in the audience videotaped the keynote, which landed in the hands of the folks at Franciscan University in Steubenville, Ohio, who put on the massive Catholic Youth Conferences. By September I got an invitation to serve on their speaking team.

I didn't seek this path. God planned it.

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