The night I awoke with my first seizure, I thought I was dying. It was the middle of the night and I had a sensation of impending doom. My brain felt like it was being electrocuted. In my last moment of consciousness, I called out to my husband. The few minutes I was seizing felt like hours. In the months to come, I would have multiple epileptic episodes. Each would begin at night and leave me exhausted in the morning. The cause for my condition remains a mystery.
At the time of my first seizure, I was a children’s minister, raising two elementary aged children of my own. The timing could not have been worse to fall ill. It was the beginning of summer, which is the busiest time of the year for children’s ministry. My brother was also about to get married. At first, I tried to keep my condition a secret, not wanting to scare my children or be a burden to my family. The stress of secrecy only augmented my seizures. I prayed in earnest that God would cure me. I thought healing would be the simplest solution to continue business as usual in my service to God and move on with my life.
But God had other plans. My seizures continued, and my despair grew.
As my body rendered itself useless in the darkness, my faith faded accordingly. I felt that God was silent to my prayers. I became angry at God. Eventually, I resigned my position at the church, exhausted from life.
One day, as I was recovering from a seizure, I began reading from 2 Corinthians 12 – Paul’s record of his thorn in his flesh. Through this passage, God changed my heart.
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