Less than 24 hours have passed since what has been, for me, the most dramatic touch from God I have ever experienced personally in my life. You may remember my post on January 24, 2006, when I shared about my experience of being healed from malaria (if not, then I encourage you to first read "Putting Faith into Action", particularly the section titled "Experience #1 - The Attack of Malaria"). This last 24 hours has seen a turnaround without comparison for me.

On Wednesday, August 30, I was admitted to Box Hill Hospital with a "sub-acute bowel obstruction", with severe vomiting, dehydration and a whole range of associated symptoms. I had to spend Father's Day (September 3 in Australia) in hospital (but it was lovely to be greeted on Father's Day morning with the kids singing "Happy Father's Day" for all the ward to hear!). Because the only real way to clear a bowel obstruction is by fasting, I was "nil by mouth" up until Saturday (September 2), which meant, of course, an unavoidable loss of weight -- I dropped down to 61 kg (134 lbs), and this was the most concerning part of the crisis. Over the next few days, though, I began to add food to my diet -- at first, clear fluids, then milky fluids, and then finally, by the day I was ready to be discharged (Tuesday, September 5), light solids. On Monday, however, something went wrong. Although I could still be discharged, I was extremely tired and all I wanted to do was sleep. When I got home, I slept right through the day and well into the next day.

What I didn't realise was that this was a symptom of a much more serious malady -- an illness that would take me quite literally, I believe, to death's door.

Throughout Wednesday, I found it increasingly difficult to regulate my core body temperature. Although I didn't have a fever (at least nothing measuring on the thermometer), I would find myself extremely cold, but then when I covered myself with blankets, I would easily "overcook" (King David experienced these symptoms, as recorded in 1 Kings 1:1). One of the reasons for this is that I now have very little body fat -- I'm low on natural insulation to keep me warm. On top of this, I also was experiencing the onset of another bowel obstruction. I could only sip a little water every now and again, and once more I couldn't eat. My family put out the word to the Prayer Firewall and the church prayer chain to come before the Lord on my behalf. We all knew that it was a very serious crisis looming.

Last night was a horrific experience. Through the night, I was fighting to keep some semblance of a stable core body temperature. I would doze off to sleep, then my temperature would plummet, and would awake in a panic. Although I was actually well rugged up, and the thermostat in our house was set at a cozy 21 degrees Celcius (70 degrees F), I felt like I was sleeping in the middle of a blizzard, wearing only a thin T-shirt. Frankly, I felt like I was on my death bed, and potentially, I guess, this could easily have been the case. I found out later that I dropped to 55 kg (121 lbs), and my body was probably metabolising muscle to try to gain the energy it needed.

Throughout the night, all I could do was cry out to the Lord for his mercy. Elena was working night-shift last night, and my mother was by my bedside, helping me to massage my legs (which provided some temporary relief from the deep aching, as well as imparting some warmth). But come 5 am, it had become very serious. My mum called Elena's work and asked for her to come back home. We were looking at calling the ambulance again, but I was absolutely terrified of the ordeal of having to face the cold when I'm put onto the stretcher (and then, of course, when I'm fitted again with the IV canula, etc). My dad (who had returned to the small unit that ECC has graciously provided for my parents when they're in Melbourne) arrived at about 5.45 am.

I'm trying my best to describe to you what is ultimately a very subjective experience, but I'm seeking to do so in terms that both honour the Lord fully for what He has done and paint in as clear a picture as possible just how serious my situation was. My body was going into shock. While I was struggling to maintain body temperature, and felt like I was trying to survive a blizzard, I also felt like my chest had been dipped in kerosene and someone had struck a match. I was burning...not the kind of burning you feel when you have a fever, but the kind of burning you feel when you are a burns victim. Remember, all this has happened for me less than 24 hours ago, and I'm trying to recount those sensations, while they are still extremely vivid for me.

I can relate very much to Psalm 18:4-6:

"The cords of death entangled me; the torrents of destruction overwhelmed me. The cords of the grave coiled around me; the snares of death confronted me. In my distress I called to the LORD; I cried to my God for help. From his temple he heard my voice; my cry came before him, into his ears."

I don't believe the Psalmist here is simply being poetic about his distress. When he describes "the cords of death" entangling him and the "cords of the grave" coiling around him, this was for him, as for me, a very real description of a physical sensation.

My uncle Terry (my dad's younger brother) flew over from New Zealand and arrived two days ago. He had been waiting on the Lord and felt that this was the time to come and join my family in specific prayer. Uncle Terry and my dad have experenced miracles beyond count -- seeing many wonderful interventions from God in healing (if you'd like to read specific stories of my parents' experiences, I encourage you to read their blog "The Living Edge").

When Uncle Terry I arrived, it was the evening I was just about to enter into everything I described above. My family had moved me onto a mattress in the center of our living room, so I that I could be in the center of family life, rather than tucked away in the bedroom. The children had each knelt by my bedside that night and prayed for me (what wonderful prayers of faith they prayed...beautiful expressions of personal trust in the Lord). They knew this was serious. I couldn't even lift my head to take a sip of water, and my voice was extremely weak...my family struggled to understand what I was trying to say, it came out in the barest whisper, and if they didn't hear the first time, I would have to gather my strength to say it one more time.

Uncle Terry told me he had been praying and asking the Lord for specific direction in how we should pray. He encouraged me that there would come a word from the Lord, a word to "Rise up." I gathered my strength, and with tears welling in my eyes, I said, "I'm waiting for the word straight from the Lord. At his word, I will get up." That's all I could say at the time, but my family understood what I meant. Countless times, Jesus had spoken to those he was about to heal and say, "Rise up and walk" (see, for example, John 5:5-9). I knew I had no physical strength to get up, yet in my mind's eye, I could see myself like the paralytic of Acts 3:1-10, "walking and jumping, and praising God"!

I asked my mum to read from Matthew 14:22-36 -- the account of Jesus walking on the water. "That's what I'm waiting for," I said to mum. "The word of Jesus, which says, 'Come!'" (Matthew 14:29). At the word of Jesus, I knew, I would get up from my death bed.

Another passage that my mother read out for me was John 11:1-44 (you may remember I posted my insights into this passage earlier in the year - see, for example, February 8). Once again, what struck me was the simple revelation that Jesus Himself is "the resurrection and the life". I cried out to the Lord under my breath and declared, "Lord, you are, for me, the resurrection and the life!"

Far too much happened overnight for me to share in this post -- my cries to God for His mercy, for His compassion, my declarations of faith, my covenantal calls upon Him. But I'll take up the story now from when my dad arrived at 5.45 am. He leant over my bed, laid his hands on me, and rebuked the spirit of death. And I then remember my dad praying that my body temperature would stabilize and become "as placid as a lake, without a ripple."

Remember, I had been struggling to maintain my core body temperature, and I was overcooking at the time -- rugged up with blankets, yet scared of the cold. But at that time, I knew I had to take a simple step of faith. This was, for me, my word from the Lord: "Rise up and walk." And so I pulled back the blankets from my shoulders. From experience, I knew it would be a matter of seconds and my temperature would crash, and I would begin to shiver from the cold.

But nothing happened! I felt warm! A few minutes passed, and I still had no need to cover myself up. After another few minutes, I asked for some water, and was able to lean on my arm to drink -- not just a sip or two, but several sips. My stomach and intenstinal track had settled down. I began to feel energy surging into my body -- not dramatically, but quietly, step by step, reverse of the "drain of death" I had been experiencing up to that time.

Dad had an appointment with Uncle Terry for breakfast, and with some dear friends, Brian and Ruth, who among many others had been interceding for me. He was going to cancel the appointment. I said, this time with growing strength in my voice, "You go, dad. I know the Lord is healing me." And so, as an act of faith, dad felt to go. "I'll bring them back to pray too," he said.

In the meantime, I was drinking more. I said to mum, "I need to get up and go to the toilet." And so, leaning on her shoulder, I got up and walked to the toilet. When I returned, rather than lying down again, I felt strong enough to sit on the sofa. By this time, I was just covered in a single blanket (my "prayer shawl"). I was now able to drink a full cup of water, and my mum began to get me some clear apple juice -- for the first time taking in real nourishment into my body.

We had one of the praise CDs playing in our CD player, and it was a song about how God had turned my mourning into dancing (see Psalm 30:11). By this time, my mum had gone to go to the bathroom, and so I stood quietly where I was, with my hands raised to the Lord, thanking Him for His healing. As the song played, I began to softly "jig" in time with the music -- it was the barest of a dance, I was still so weak, but for me it was another step of faith. I was putting into action the faith I had in the Lord.

From that time on, my recovery was speedy. An hour or so later, my dad arrived with Uncle Terry, Brian and Ruth, and I greeted my dad at the door with a military salute. Hour by hour, my strength increased. By lunch time, I was walking around as if nothing had happened the night before. When Elena finally woke up from her sleep (she had been on night shift, you may recall), she and I went for a walk with the dogs!

In the days to come, I'll share more of what God is doing in my life. But already, the testimony of God's grace is being sounded abroad. My GP is amazed by what she recognizes is a total miracle from God's hand. My palliative care nurses knew the seriousness of my situation, and have never encountered anything in their experience like this. As far as they were concerned, from the descriptions I was giving of my ordeal last night, I was on my death bed. Everything conformed to what they have witnessed, many times, of people at death's door.

I'll close, for now, with my personal testimony of God's mercy, as described in Psalm 37:17:

"The righteous cry out, and the LORD hears them; he delivers them from all their troubles."

Or as The Message so beautifully puts it:

"Is anyone crying for help? God is listening, ready to rescue you."