Christian songs originally recorded during the 1960s and ’70s by people like the Imperials and David Meese. Eva had brought them to the hospital along with a tape player, but I had no interest in listening to them.
Instead, I watched TV. I once told a friend, “I’ve watched every Brady Bunch episode at least eight times, and I know all of the dialogue by heart.”
One morning between three and five o’clock, I couldn’t bear to watch another TV rerun, so I decided to play the cassettes. A nurse came in and helped me set up the first cassette to play.
The first song had been recorded by the Imperials, and it was called “Praise the Lord.” The lyrics suggest that when we’re up against a struggle and we think we can’t go on, we need to praise God. As preposterous as that prospect seemed at three o’clock in the morning in a hospital bed, I continued to listen for any help to bring me out of my deep heartache. There was a phrase in the next verse about the chains that seem to bind us falling away when we turn ourselves over to praise. The whole song centered on praising God in spite of our circumstances.
The instant the Imperials sang the second chorus about the chains, I looked down at my chains—pounds of stainless steel encasing my arm and leg. Before my accident, I’m sure I’d heard and sung that song hundreds of times. I had even played it myself. Just then, those words became a message from God—a direct hit from on high.
Before they had finished singing the song, I lay there and heard my own voice say, “Praise the Lord!”
No sooner had that song ended than David Meese sang, “We Are the Reason.” His words reminded me that we are the reason Jesus Christ wept, suffered, and died on the cross. Meese sang about how he finally found that the real purpose in living was in giving every part of his life to Christ. That wasn’t a new song to me, but something happened during those predawn hours. Other than music, I heard nothing else—no moaning from other rooms or footsteps of nurses in the hallway. I felt totally isolated from the world around me.
Then the dam broke. Tears slid down my cheeks, and I couldn’t wipe them away—and I didn’t even want to try. They just flowed. The tears wouldn’t stop, and I cried as I had never wept before. I’m not sure, but I think the crying lasted for about an hour.
Slowly the sobbing subsided. Calmness swept over me, and I lay relaxed and very much at peace. That’s when I realized another miracle had taken place: My depression had lifted. Vanished.
I had been healed. Again.
Stark reminders from some simple songs had changed me. The Imperials reminded me that Satan is a liar. He wants to steal our joy and replace it with hopelessness. When we’re up against a struggle and we think we can’t keep going, we can change that by praising God. Our chains will fall from us.
Meese encouraged me by reminding me of the real reason we have for fully living this life. It’s to give everything we have to God—even the heartbreaks and pain. God is our reason to live.
That morning I determined to get on with living the rest of my life, no matter what. I made that decision with no psychiatric help, no drugs, and no counseling. As I listened to those two songs, God had healed me. The despair lifted. My mental chains had broken. I also knew that nothing I had gone through—or would endure—was as horrific as what Jesus suffered.
I’m not trying to imply that I’m against psychological help. Before and since my accident, I’ve sent many people for counseling. But because I wasn’t open to help of any kind, God healed me in a dramatic and unexplainable way.
As I lay there, my attitude changed. I had no idea when my physical pain would end or how long I’d have to wear the Ilizarov frame, but I knew Jesus Christ was with me. I still didn’t understand why God had sent me back to live with all of this agony, but that no longer mattered.
Now I was free. He
Instead, I watched TV. I once told a friend, “I’ve watched every Brady Bunch episode at least eight times, and I know all of the dialogue by heart.”
One morning between three and five o’clock, I couldn’t bear to watch another TV rerun, so I decided to play the cassettes. A nurse came in and helped me set up the first cassette to play.
The first song had been recorded by the Imperials, and it was called “Praise the Lord.” The lyrics suggest that when we’re up against a struggle and we think we can’t go on, we need to praise God. As preposterous as that prospect seemed at three o’clock in the morning in a hospital bed, I continued to listen for any help to bring me out of my deep heartache. There was a phrase in the next verse about the chains that seem to bind us falling away when we turn ourselves over to praise. The whole song centered on praising God in spite of our circumstances.
The instant the Imperials sang the second chorus about the chains, I looked down at my chains—pounds of stainless steel encasing my arm and leg. Before my accident, I’m sure I’d heard and sung that song hundreds of times. I had even played it myself. Just then, those words became a message from God—a direct hit from on high.
Before they had finished singing the song, I lay there and heard my own voice say, “Praise the Lord!”
No sooner had that song ended than David Meese sang, “We Are the Reason.” His words reminded me that we are the reason Jesus Christ wept, suffered, and died on the cross. Meese sang about how he finally found that the real purpose in living was in giving every part of his life to Christ. That wasn’t a new song to me, but something happened during those predawn hours. Other than music, I heard nothing else—no moaning from other rooms or footsteps of nurses in the hallway. I felt totally isolated from the world around me.
Then the dam broke. Tears slid down my cheeks, and I couldn’t wipe them away—and I didn’t even want to try. They just flowed. The tears wouldn’t stop, and I cried as I had never wept before. I’m not sure, but I think the crying lasted for about an hour.
Slowly the sobbing subsided. Calmness swept over me, and I lay relaxed and very much at peace. That’s when I realized another miracle had taken place: My depression had lifted. Vanished.
I had been healed. Again.
Stark reminders from some simple songs had changed me. The Imperials reminded me that Satan is a liar. He wants to steal our joy and replace it with hopelessness. When we’re up against a struggle and we think we can’t keep going, we can change that by praising God. Our chains will fall from us.
Meese encouraged me by reminding me of the real reason we have for fully living this life. It’s to give everything we have to God—even the heartbreaks and pain. God is our reason to live.
That morning I determined to get on with living the rest of my life, no matter what. I made that decision with no psychiatric help, no drugs, and no counseling. As I listened to those two songs, God had healed me. The despair lifted. My mental chains had broken. I also knew that nothing I had gone through—or would endure—was as horrific as what Jesus suffered.
I’m not trying to imply that I’m against psychological help. Before and since my accident, I’ve sent many people for counseling. But because I wasn’t open to help of any kind, God healed me in a dramatic and unexplainable way.
As I lay there, my attitude changed. I had no idea when my physical pain would end or how long I’d have to wear the Ilizarov frame, but I knew Jesus Christ was with me. I still didn’t understand why God had sent me back to live with all of this agony, but that no longer mattered.
Now I was free. He
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