Call Me Maybe

Have you ever felt that if you could just witness an obvious sign that God existed, you would believe? If He would wake this friend from a coma...if He would come to you in a vision or dream...if He would speak a word audibly…if He would take away your pain...

Let’s be real though.

If any one of those things happened your mind would probably come up with a naturalistic explanation. Think through those scenarios above, or come up with one of your own. Do you really think you can think of any “miracle” or answer to prayer that you wouldn’t be able to explain away with naturalism? We have an incredible capacity for making sense of things in a way that suits our already internalized beliefs. Confirmation bias is pretty impossible to overcome. That said, I will probably not be changing anyone’s belief systems today.

But I’ll tell the story anyway.

When I was in college, I was part of this crazy group of messy people who loved Jesus and tried to follow what was written about Him in Scripture. One night we were hanging out and some of us went to pick up pizza for the group. In the car I said something to my friend, Zack, about wanting to experience something really crazy - like hearing the phone number of a stranger.

He said, “Have you ever asked the Lord to give you that?”

I said, “No,” but then instantly a 7-digit number was scrolling through my head and as I dialed it the name Caris came to mind. It was strange for sure. Maybe I could have explained it away a la naturalism by saying that I’d subconsciously stored the name and number of someone I’d met once but forgotten. And I might have explained it that way to myself had it not been for what happened next,

“We’re sorry, the number you have dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in service.”

I turned to my friend Zack and told him that the number was disconnected.

“What was the number?” he asked. (I hadn’t told him the number or the name I’d had in mind before dialing.)  I told him the number that had scrolled through my head.

He said, “Maybe you’re close but mixed up a couple numbers. Try 93 instead of 39. Like, 555-5935 instead of 395.”

So I dialed it again with the (kinda weird) modification he suggested (I mean, switch the middle two of the last four numbers???) I still had not told Zack the name that was in my mind or that I even had a name in mind, I just dialed the new number.

“Hello?” came a man’s voice.

“Hi, is Caris there?” I asked.

“No, she’s in New York right now.”

I felt my heart drop and thrill at the same time. What in the world?! That random number is actually connected to this random name that came to mind??! I've never even met anyone named Caris before! It's not like it's a super common name! My other thought, however, was, What in the world do I do next???

I proceeded to explain to the man, who told me his name was Alex, how I had just gotten his phone number. My memory is blurry on all that I said exactly. I think I started with something like, “So you don’t know me, but God knows you.”  I remember telling him that God loved him and something about God seeing every one of his baseball games even though Alex’s dad didn’t go to them. (Random, right?) I also remember that I encouraged him to go to church. I don’t remember if I ever asked him a nice follow up question like, “How is this all sounding to you. How are you feeling about having a stranger call you out of the blue?”  I was so caught off guard and out of my element through the entire conversation, which probably didn’t last more than 5 minutes.

I may never know Caris’ and Alex’s side of this story. I vaguely remember leaving a voicemail the next day with my contact information, offering to pray for them or answer any questions. But I wanted to respect their privacy after that. I think it was several months later that I called again and the phone number had been disconnected.

What if Alex had asked God that day to give him a sign that He exists? And what if when he hung up the phone with me that night he thought, “Caris knows some weird kids. I guess it's a pretty harmless phone prank though.”

(This is post #7 in a year-long series of hope-filled posts with evidences of God’s intervening in the lives of ordinary people. All events relayed in my posts were witnessed by myself or a friend or family member or multiple combinations of those witnesses, and I have attempted to relay the events as accurately as possible.)

Where does healing come from?

This is a true story. And a simple one.

Once upon a time, a painter was contracted to do some work on my parents’ place. He had been working for a few days during normal business hours. At the end of one of those days my dad arrived home earlier than usual. The painter recognized him but didn’t say anything for a few minutes.

(We’ve all been there, right? You recognize someone, but do you say something about it or nah? 🙃)

Then he approached my dad and said something along the lines of, “Three years ago I had been having migraines that were really rough - really interfering with my life. You prayed for me and I haven’t had one since. I just wanted to thank you.”

My dad is a family practice physician. He sees about 20 patients on a clinic day. He’d probably seen thousands of patients in those 3 years. Sometimes he prayed with some of them. Whatever came out of this appointment, the painter didn’t remember a medication being particularly helpful (if there was one). What he did remember was my dad praying for him, and he attributed his healing to that prayer and God.

For my dad it was an ordinary day, carrying out his ordinary responsibilities. To my fellow believers whose belief is in an extraordinary God: this is my encouragement to you to appreciate the ordinary. Don’t overlook it. In a world that appreciates almost only what is extraordinary - from what makes headlines and clickbait, to what we admire and strive for in life - it’s okay to do the small things. It’s okay to be faithful. We serve a God who outshines us in every way. Why try to compete? 😉 He is faithful too. And He will accomplish His purposes.

And for every dad out there, in the daily grind, doing the little things, being faithful - your impact is more than you may ever know.

My Own Dreams

My Own Dreams

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 27, 2008

(Guest entry by my sister, Andrea Belyeu)

“For most of us, dreams come true only after they do not matter, Only in childhood do we ever have the chance of making dreams come true when they mean everything.”

In an earlier post, I mentioned that I'm going to work on trying new things, and being strong enough to enjoy the experience - whether I fail, excel, or pass by with mediocracy.  When I was a child I wanted to do so much; my plans for all I would do could fill ten lifetimes.  I would win that gold medal at the Olympics.  Every abandoned boy would come to live at my children's home and we would live with racket and adventures, inventions and dirt.  I would live in a treehouse in Africa and reside in a cottage in Ireland's green hills.  

Of course, I was going to return to Italy, where I spent much of my childhood, which is perfect because it is (relatively) close to where I would work in the Romanian children's orphanage, nursing abandoned infants and children to good health and happiness.  At some point, I'd enjoy a Broadway career and write (and star in the resulting film) my fictional-based-on-true-events story of the first hand account of the bombing of the Murrah Building.

So some of these things sound a bit outlandish, but most of it I really believed could and would happen at some point.  The hard part was deciding which one to pursue.  

I will never forget the evening my 12 year-old-self was at some social event, sitting next to my father.  They were doing a game or activity where they listed four things they wanted to be and four things they wanted to do.  

These were my dad's four things he wanted to do:

See Andrea win the gymnastic all-around Olympic gold medal.

Watch Jessica perform Mozart in Carnegie Hall.

Be at the World Series when Joel hits a home run to win.

Watch Timothy accept a Nobel Peace Prize.

My 12 year old self didn't think too much of those words.  How incredibly privileged was I to have a father who just wanted his children's dreams realized?  That's what he wanted to do.  I don't think he wrote each word, believing it would happen verbatim.  If you look very, very closely, he really wrote this:

Andrea will not listen when others question her dreams or hopes. 

Finding that she has the tenacity and skill, Jessica will succeed at whatever she sets out to do.

Joel will find what he was made to do and he will do it well.

Despite what other people think about Timothy, he will live a life of character and influence.  

I plan to hold onto my dreams; they will not become less important as I work, age, procreate, wander, and fail.  They will evolve, develop, and certainly won't include gymnastics anymore.  They will not end in gold medals or a published book, but will be fulfilled when my heart is full and my character solid.  So today I choose to make my hopes the most significant thing, because they just might take me places...

Written by Andrea Lisabeth (Wright) Belyeu

She knew something even my parents didn't...

     As I stepped out of the shower, I had one simple thought come to mind. I remember it as clearly as I remember my view when the thought came.

     My view was of the low wall of the shower base I was stepping over as I reached for a towel. My thought was - "I want my hair to be braided. I'll ask Andrea to braid my hair."

     I was 10 years old, and I don't really have much memory of other parts of that night other than my sister, Andrea, sitting on a couch behind me as I sat in front of her and she braided my hair. My parents had left earlier that evening for a prayer group. I think my little brothers were in the same room as my sister and I were. I'm pretty sure the TV was on.

     The next morning I excitedly undid the braid to see how my typically stick-straight hair would look. It was like a magic trick. The overnight change of a left-in hair style was about as "extreme makeover" as it gets for 10 year olds. Or at least the 10 year olds I ran with. Ridiculously unskillful over-application of make-up at sleep overs was probably the only thing that was more extreme. To be honest, I wasn't much into regularly trying either kind of makeover. But for this rare occasion, on this morning, the crimped waves did not disappoint.

     I had to share my excitement so I sashayed into my parents' room to show them. I came to my dad first.

     "Look at my hair. Andrea braided it last night," I said.

     "Huh. Pretty. Can you go show your mom?"

     The thoughtful look on my dad's face as he said this was maybe a little out of place. But for him to think I should show my mom too - that was a pretty satisfying response - so I happily made my way over to my mom around the corner.

     "See, mom? Andrea braided my hair last night!" It was such a fun surprise because they hadn't seen me since before I showered the night before and they'd come home after I was already asleep!

     "That's nice. Honey, did you see this?"

     I made my way back over to "Honey" and he began to fill me in on their strange responses to my hair.

     My dad was sitting on the edge of their bed so we were eye level as he explained, "Last night one of the women praying for us shared some words and pictures she said that she had for our daughter." My dad went on to tell me about those words and pictures and then said, "After that she asked us if we even had a daughter. We said, 'Yes, we have two' and she said, 'Well it's the one with a braid in her hair.' "

     And that, as far back as I can remember, was my first experience with accurate, prophetic words of knowledge. It wouldn't be my last.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My word for this year is hope. In an effort to keep my eyes on the source of my hope, I’m planning to share one post every month on this blog page that testifies to God’s power, provision, and goodness.

In sickness and in health

I looked down at my phone to silence the incoming call from my brother for the second or third time. “Dude, it can wait,” I thought. Our conversations had recently centered around a girl he liked, and while those are among my top favorite conversations to have with guys - especially my brothers - I was also at church on a Thursday evening for a women’s group and we were in the middle of the lesson.

Then I got the text: “Mom just got admitted to the edmond hospital, heart attack”.

I hardly understood what I was reading. My body seemed to move separately from my mind as I stood, quietly made my way past other women in the row of chairs, and headed for the lobby. As I pushed the door open to walk outside, I remember looking back over my shoulder to see my pastor making his way into the sanctuary I’d just come from. I remember thinking “He’s just heard. He’s going to ask them to pray.” I was right. I later found out that all those women, gathered together as if divinely arranged, did pray right then for my mom.

I kept moving toward my car and thinking how impossible this was. My mom was thin, basically ate spinach like Popeye (among other strange and healthy foods), worked out 3-5x/week, and had absolutely no history of heart problems - not even an occasional high blood pressure. She was essentially a case study for “person least likely to have a heart attack.”

But she did have a heart attack.

We would find out later that it was a spontaneous coronary artery dissection - an extremely rare condition. In 2010, when this all took place, only about 200 cases had been documented since 1931 and while the true prevalence and prognosis remains uncertain today, I know one scientific article stated that it "generally results in death”.

But she didn’t die.

She lost consciousness twice because her heart was insufficiently pumping blood to her brain. Twice her heart had to be shocked back to a normal rhythm. But she didn't die.

I’m still able to call her for recipes, still able to share a silly thought or story with her. She’s one of the few people I can trust with every thought and pain and dream and know that she will always listen to me and love me. I don’t ever want to take that for granted. Life is so precious. And we aren’t in eternity yet, so for now time with each other is precious too.

I believe God chose to spare my mom that night. He chose to heal her and give her to us for awhile longer. I believe my God heals and saves to the uttermost. I believe His goodness does not hinge on doing whatever we want Him to do, whenever we want Him to do it. As my sister said that night, "Thanks all. We had an amazing network of friends who spread the news and prayed so much for my mom tonight. Thank you if you were a part of that group. God's goodness and mercy have been evident, as they would have been if the outcome had been different. I am grateful for the reminder of His greatness."

I cannot command God to save and heal, but I’ve witnessed Him save and heal. He is no genie. He is, however, a good, good Father. The evidence of His existence isn't dependent on performing magic tricks or Him bowing to my every whim. I do see evidence of Him in pouring out love and creating purpose out of chaos.

Few times have I felt so loved as when my family and I went through my mom’s heart attack. The immediacy of texts from people I hadn’t heard from in awhile, including those out of state, as well as the physical presence of our church loving us in word and deed - cleaning the house, feeding us, encouraging us - all reflected the love of our Father.

And sometimes He heals.

My hope is healing. My hope is that deeper and greater love will be the outcome of every trial and disappointment. Most confidently though, my hope is in a loving Father who has never failed me.

Hope with me?

Hope and Healing

I have known Sara for a decade now. She is an incredibly talented artist with a life story even more beautiful than her art. She broke my heart the time she told me that her earliest memory was looking at her birthday cake when she was turning 3 years old and thinking “We can’t eat cake until Daddy gets here”. But Daddy didn’t come. Her dad wasn’t really a “show up for my daughter’s birthday party” kind of guy at the time. He had a physically abusive relationship with Sara’s mom which lead to her mom leaving him, after a life-threatening instance of abuse, when Sara was still young.

So Sara grew up in a small, single-parent family in a small town in Oklahoma. She left that small town to pursue a college education closer to Oklahoma city, in the suburb of Edmond. I’m so glad she made that courageous move because if she hadn’t we likely would never have met.

Sara has taught me a lot about hope. She has been through experiences that are quite counter to my own experiences. The kind of experiences that you wouldn’t think would predispose someone to have hope. But Sara hopes in the midst of what seems dark and hopeless. Actually, it was in the middle of a dark season in both of our lives that she painted the picture above and titled it “Hope and Promise”.

Below is Sara’s story of experiencing healing from pain in her hands:

“I had a diagnosis of carpal tunnel in the spring of ‘07 in Weatherford, and then a diagnosis of the equivalent of carpal tunnel in my elbows (I don’t remember what the medical term was for that) that fall in Edmond. I even applied and was going to receive disability money since I was unable to hold much of a job.

I was in pain holding a hairbrush, driving, writing, turning textbook pages. My hands were getting weak, I was needing to use two hands to hold a glass of water. It was pretty discouraging.  I wondered what I could do in life and - haha - who would want to marry me, a cripple? I was unable to clean my room because I needed to conserve my hands for the most important tasks of a day, and I told God I would like to do much more than clean my room, that was just a start. So I cried to Him to help me.  I felt heat and was sweating (it's the middle of January in a 100 year old house, seriously no chance of that happening). I recalled in the Bible that Jesus told a man to pick up his bed and go home. So I thought I could act in faith similarly by throwing away everything to do with my condition, my arm braces and long awaited acceptance letter from disability support, with my roommates as witnesses.  Over the next few days I had no more carpal tunnel, and I had new muscle soreness from exercising my hands by normal use, and the strength came back, thanks to God!”

Sara is no longer a cripple. Not that I think it actually would have been a deal breaker in the first place, but Sara is also married with three kids now. 😂

My word for this year is hope. In an effort to keep my eyes on the source of my hope, I’m planning to share one post every month on this blog page that testifies to God’s power, provision, and goodness. If you have a story to share please pass it along to me and I might post it here! The only requirement is that it be a verifiably true story! :-)

Fender Benders and a Five Year Old's Prayer

My word for this year is hope. In an effort to keep my eyes on the source of my hope, I’m planning to share one post every month on this blog page that testifies to God’s power, provision, and goodness.

It was one of the biggest gifts I’d ever seen. In all my ten years I couldn’t remember ever getting a present all wrapped up in pretty paper when it wasn’t even my birthday or Christmas.  This gift was special. It had come all the way from Italy to our home in Oklahoma. I turned the box over to find the seams of the wrapping paper and carefully began peeling it back. I had been collecting porcelain dolls for the past couple of years, and naturally was hoping for another. Yet, it really didn’t matter to me what was inside; I was just so surprised by our Italian friends’ thoughtfulness. It was not the first time they’d shown me kindness; or, I should say, it was not the first time God had chosen to show His kindness towards me through them.

Five years earlier my family and I were far from our home in Oklahoma. Because my father was in the military, we found ourselves in the little town of Dardago, Italy, over 4,000 miles away from home in the U.S. Once there, my parents wanted to enroll me in an Italian school as soon as possible so that I could begin learning the language. They were not the only ones enthusiastic about this plan. I, too, was looking forward to being a part of an “asilo” - an Italian kindergarten.

One beautiful Dardago morning, my mom and I set out to visit the only asilo nearby. We wound through the narrow streets of town in our minivan and soon arrived at the school.  The towering front gate of the asilo might have appeared intimidating to a five-year-old if it had not been for the fascinating playground that could be clearly seen through the gate’s bars. I let my imagination run wild as I took in every brightly colored detail.  There were monkey bars that curved and twisted, swings that looked like they could bring you within reach of clouds, merry-go-rounds, seesaws, and in the corner of the courtyard a particularly interesting ride. It was built like the gliders on most backyard swing sets, but it had enough seats for ten kids. As each kid swayed in rhythm, the ride would glide back and forth like a giant pendulum. I fell in love with the school before ever entering its front gate. A tour, an interview, and a few monkey bar climbs later, I was back in the car with my mom, my expression quite the opposite of what it had been when I first saw the school.

“I’m so sorry honey,” my mom sympathized, “I know you’re disappointed."

My response was to slump down in the backseat of the car. My parents had already decided that I would only attend school if the school allowed me to attend half-days. My parents knew it wouldn’t be good for me to be separated from them for so long at such a young age and to be all day without anyone who spoke my own language.  This asilo, which I was more than ready to call my own, did not fit my parent’s preferences. The head maestra (teacher) of the school told us there was no possible way I could be allowed to enroll for only half-days.
“Why can’t I go?” I whined, already knowing the answer.
“Honey, they won’t let you go for half-days,” my mom answered patiently for the umpteenth time. “You know what we can do though?”
“What?” I asked dolefully.
“We can pray and see what God does.”
“Well,” I thought, “it’s worth a try.”

A few days later my mom and I were out running errands when she noticed the van was low on gas, so she stopped at a station. She was in a hurry as she hopped out of the van, forgetting to put it in park. From the front passenger seat, I watched as the car getting gas in front of us appeared to be coming closer and closer.

“Mom!” I called out at the very instant my mom realized what was happening. The next moment we hit the car in front of us. The driver of the other car, a lady in her thirties, approached us. Considering each knew little of the other’s language, she and my mom were able to communicate fairly well as they exchanged addresses and phone numbers. The next day the lady came to our house and told my mom that her husband wanted to invite her and my dad to dinner to discuss the damages to their car. Apparently they were having difficulty shutting their car’s trunk. My parents had heard stories about Italians scamming foreigners. So it was with hopes for the best, and fears for the worst, that my parents prepared for dinner with the DelMaschios.

On the night of the anticipated dinner, my parents found the home of the DelMaschios warm and bright. My parents were treated to delicious Italian food and authentic Italian hospitality. Several times during dinner, my parents would bring up the car accident and each time they were shushed or laughed off by the DelMaschios. Mr. DelMaschio was a large man with white hair and a mustache that drooped down just past the corners of his often-used smile. Mrs. DelMaschio too had a pleasant face and ready smile. Together, the couple put my parents at ease, and the four found themselves really enjoying each other’s company. Towards the end of the meal, the conversation turned towards school in Italy.  My parents shared how they had already found a grade school for my older sister, but were disappointed that the asilo in Dardago would not accept me for half-days. Upon hearing this, Mr. DelMaschio began to laugh. Mrs. DelMaschio joined him. My parents sat in confusion.

“Il presidente!” Mr. DelMaschio explained. “I am the president of asilo. Of course your daughter can come for just half-days.”

Yes. After I prayed to go to school, my mom just happened to roll into the car of the principal of the school I wanted to go to.

Being a long way from home in a foreign country did not seem like a gift from God.  A refusal from an asilo did not seem like a gift from God. Rolling into someone else’s car did not seem like a gift from God. But unlike the gift I got from the DelMaschios years later, I’ve learned that God’s gifts do not always come in pretty wrapping paper and they are not always big and obvious. God gave my parents peace in accepting a dinner invitation with strangers. God provided kind, Italian friends for my family during our stay in Italy.  God gave a little girl the gift of answered prayer, and allowed me to attend the school I wanted. And as I lifted the box flaps of the gift I’d just received from the DelMaschios, I smiled at the little extra kindness God showed me yet again. Peeking out was a beautiful little peasant doll of porcelain. It would be a most treasured addition to my collection of dolls, a reminder that God looked out for not only my needs, but also the little desires of my heart.

(The above is a modified essay I submitted in high school called God’s Gifts. It reflects my present recollections of events that took place in my life. I’ve attempted to relay those events truthfully, and the important components of the events can be verified by the other individuals named in the account.)