Breath of Heaven
Then the Lord God formed a man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living being. Genesis 2:7
It is something we don’t think about. One breath in, one breath out. Without even being aware, it is God’s breath in our lungs bringing life; the removal of it brings death.
Read the beginning words of Genesis, and there it is for the very first time: God bending low, an intimate kiss as He placed His lips over the lifeless form of Adam, breathing His breath into Adam’s lungs, and there was life. What a wonder!
The breath of life. The breath of heaven. The breath of God.
I have been thinking of these things lately. A little too proud of myself for my good health, as if I am in control. Ha! I cajole us into walks every day. Maybe for the dog. Mostly for me. Vacations are outside, exploring paths and rivers and looking up into the trees as we wander. Our walks in hiking boots go from a mile or two to four or five.
I am learning to gather food for what my body needs, not what I crave (mostly!) Over the last year, packaged food has gone into the garbage. Seriously, how many pesticides and toxic preservatives do we need… and what are those chemicals in this product with an almost endless shelf life and a long, long list of ingredients? And why does everything need sugar, high-fructose corn syrup, and canola oil? What does my brain need to be healthy? After all, my mother’s family all died from that massive bleeding stroke – but that usually waits until the 70s or more likely the 80s or in Uncle Robert's case, the 90s. So clearly, I have time. But then.
Thanksgiving. A beautiful day after, a brisk mile walk from the playground with Kayla and Christopher, my greats (I have embraced every niece and nephew’s child as my own). Lunch was leftovers from the feast the day before. And oh, my goodness! What is that heavy pain that feels like my stomach is going to burst? I need to lie down for a few minutes until this goes away. It doesn’t. 24 hours later, I find myself admitted to the hospital for an emergency appendectomy. What? Are you serious? First-ever surgery. Okay. That was interesting. I am strong. I can deal with this.
Five days later, as I felt a cold with a terrible cough coming on, I adamantly declared to Jeff, “If I get a cold right now, you might as well go ahead and admit me to the hospital.” Prophetic. (Later, an ER doc would question if that introduced an infection that would kick-start the next chain of events.) Over the next two weeks, as everyone ran headlong into December, in the middle of the world’s celebration of my Lord’s birth, I would find myself there, in the hospital, instead of here, among my family and Christmas lights.
On we go. The following Wednesday morning, my brain refused to do my bidding. My coffee cup surprisingly lay broken on the tile floor. How did that happen? I watched as my hand missed picking it up… over and over again. My depth perception was off. My words soon followed; instead of what I was thinking, I said sentences that made no sense. I knew immediately what it was: a stroke. Lots of examinations and an MRI over the next 48 hours in the neurology ward affirmed my own little diagnosis. Meet your Neurologist.
Next week, shortness of breath and extreme exhaustion. Fluid around your lungs and heart will do that. A-fib followed the next day. And then again, the next. Cardiology ward. What was going on? I had no idea. More than that, I had no control. It is an awful feeling for someone like me who has always felt like she was in control. (I had fought long and hard to build a career with Director attached to my name – so, yes.)
Surrender. Some of us have to be almost physically restrained to give up. I guess that is me. A mandated hospital room and the inability to even go to the bathroom by myself. You don’t realize how important that is until you are not allowed to. Or eat or drink if they decide that is better for you, for their various emergency possibilities. You sign all your legal rights away on entering, and eventually discover you are not allowed to leave until they give their permission.
Arms both filled with IVs, bandages on hands from the constant blood taking. Oh, did that cause a blood clot? Nights with monitors that beep because of my constant low blood pressure until it became the opposite. A night nurse slipped an oxygen tube over my head, since my breathing was apparently slow. “Try sleeping on your side”. Surrender. Breathing in. Breathing out.
And I was mad! What happened to my beautiful, healthy body? What happened to my strong organs? My agility? My sharpish mind?
And in the middle of the night, hospital stay number two, God sent His Breath from Heaven to me. A large black man took my hand in his, gently tapping, tapping my veins, leaning low in the semi-darkness to whisper something to me only God could know. Something extremely unusual and sure. Something I immediately knew was from God. He had heard me and had sent this beautiful man to tell me that he knew every thought.
I never felt the needle go in, or the blood go out, and as he rose to leave, he turned to tell me the truth I already knew, but in my anger and frustration, I was forgetting. “The Lord your God is the Lord God Almighty. You can depend on His strength.”
As he began to push his way through the curtains, I called out to him, “Wait.” He paused, silhouetted in the blue light. “God sent you to me tonight. The words you spoke were from Him. Thank you.”
“That may well be…” he replied, looking back at me. And he was gone.
Breath of heaven. With that visit, I knew this messenger of God had brought life back into my lungs. A light in the darkness. Reassurance. A praise of God’s presence. And everything in my thoughts changed.
Released two days later, as you already know, I would return again. Acceleration. The physical symptoms were changing, becoming more severe. And my angel would come to me two more times, in the night. As he held my hand and took my lifeblood, he would talk about God. He always brought a message, direction, reassurance. He reminded me healing was in God’s Word – in every single word. That was where my life was, not my functioning or non-functioning organs. Not in the doctors or the nurses or all the medicines slowly dripping into my veins. Each time, he brought me the Breath of Heaven, his deep love for our Father, God’s Spirit joining us as one. It changed me. My heart, my thoughts, my attitude.
My night visits with Michael the angel reminded me that I was in the place of Joseph of the coat of many colors. I was not on the throne. I was in prison, falsely accused, yet placed there carefully by God, who would bless all that I did. Not because of my own good actions. But because it brought Him good pleasure. Genesis 39:20-23; 40:6-7 will tell you a little of that story,
“Why is your face downcast?” Joseph asked the baker and the wine-taster of the Pharaoh. I was there in a hospital bed, tied with lines to poles and a bed that would alarm if I attempted to leave – not for me, but to look into each face that bent down over me and ask them about themselves. It became a joy. Sometimes the conversation was light, and they went away, hopefully feeling seen. But much of the time, the conversation quickly turned to God and His goodness.
And God brought me yet another Breath from Heaven. My beautiful Ethiopian night nurse, who came in the door fighting for me. My advocate, my champion, who was insistent with doctors hesitant to prescribe simple medications, who, instead of absent-mindedly leaving the overhead lights on at night, asked to dim my nightlight so I could sleep better. She would check on me without waking me when she could.
I had caught a glimmer of gold at her neck. A cross? I felt it in my spirit. A believer? Yes, she was.
For three nights, she ministered to me with Breath from Heaven. And God allowed me to minister to her. Thirty-two, beautiful, and hardworking, she began sharing her thoughts and her aspirations with me. I shared life, love, marriage, and relationship advice with her. She sat beside me on the bed, and we talked as if she were my beloved niece or daughter. She returned again as her shift ended and dawn broke into the third day to reassure me she would keep the breakfast date she had with the young man she was interested in, who was brilliant and respectful of her and training to get his pilot’s license, and that we would not see each other again, because I would be released. She embraced me, and she was gone.
This is my story of God sending His Breath from Heaven. Sometimes it is the actual breath in our lungs. Sometimes it is His Word of healing. Sometimes it is a person who contains His Spirit. But it is there.
Thirty-six hours later, I opened my eyes, not to the beige hospital walls, but to blue skies, blue water, the endless horizon stretching out beyond me. Sun shining gently on my face. Sunsets in the evening outside my door. A room with a view and family. The medical people were gone, replaced by the ones who love me; the ones waiting on me, bringing me food and drink and tenderness. And God’s sweetest gift. Breath of Heaven.
Breath of Heaven (video with Amy Grant song) Bill Holybee videographer