Sometimes, I don't understand my life. I sometimes feel like I'm sailing in one direction, or I know exactly what I feel. But there are situations, occurrences, or happenings that show otherwise — as a brutal shock of reality. There are also times when my feelings and my state of mind are broken by something for the sake of it to be rebuilt. This has happened so many times, and it's still happening.

And this usually happens in affiliation to my relationship with God. So far, I've not been stable enough spiritually. I'm constantly shaken.

Now that I've put that out, let me take you on a quick trip down memory lane. In the last installment of my author's notes, I spoke about my desire to be an inspiration to many on social media and I talked about my wish to go back to India for another surgery and how I went back to a state of numbness because I realized that the possibilities of going back were not likely.

If you recall, in the older installment of the author's notes, I expatiated on the insecurities I was feeling. Then these feelings progressed to numbness and then nonchalance. This was before the presence of Instagram raised my hopes again and spiked up some emotions within me. In this installment, I will be narrating another experience that caused an uprising and turmoil of my emotions.

After I came to terms with the fact that I couldn't travel back to India, life went on. A few years later, I started to get closer to God — or instead, I was attempting to get closer to God. Because my spiritual life has always been a rollercoaster filled with a cycle of dormancy, spontaneous and sudden faith in God only to have my faith get polluted by different things — especially my poisonous chain of thoughts.

In my earlier years of university, I was pretty average. Perhaps, still slightly insecure, but it was nothing much. I wasn't going through a difficult phase. I had a community of great people, and I attended a fellowship very often. Being a part of this fellowship was one of my major attempts in getting closer to God, and frankly, it helped my spiritual life.

The coordinator of the fellowship was kind. The people in the fellowship were also very hospitable, so it easily felt like family. The sermons preached in the fellowship resonated deeply, and the prayers instilled in me a sense of confidence and energy and hope for a better life in all ramifications.

It was during one of the prayers sessions where the spirit of God was very present in the room that everyone in the fellowship decided to make me the center of their prayers for that night. A couple of minutes before the prayer session, we were asked to share life-changing experiences that helped us remain thankful to God.

So I shared a brief story of my legs, of how I'm thankful to God for the success of the surgeries I've had in the past. Then I went on to say some honest things. I shared my pain and spoke of how I still wasn't too happy with the current situation of things. I expressed my displeasure in my manner of walking. Then I wrapped up my speech, saying that I wished for permanent healing.

Everyone was touched by everything I'd said because they could see the state of my heart as I spoke. It was evident to them that I was still hurting because it was hard to find the words as I tried to express myself. I was stammering. I was fighting back the tears. There was a tight lumpy ball of emotions clogged in my throat, seeking a means of outer expression.

So they prayed for me that night till the time for the fellowship gathering was up. During the prayer session, one of the fellowship members,  a senior, touched my knees gently as she prayed in tongues. Then, later on, she prophesied and told me that my legs would get healed.

And those very words marked the beginning of my turmoil.

That was the first time I was told that my legs would get healed. At least, that was the first time it felt real to me. It felt like it was really going to happen. I was floating in a high cloud of euphoria. It felt lovely to know that God cared about me. The notion of being the Lord's child became a bit solid to me because I realized that God had me in mind.

These good feelings raised my faith in God. It gave me hope for my healing. I was positive. I was happy with the good news.

Not long afterward, another encounter with God concerning my legs happened. The fellowship coordinator invited me to go for a three-day church retreat outside school. I told my dad about it, and he permitted me. So I accepted the invitation and went.

The retreat at this church had members that mainly consisted of students at my school. This particular church was everyone's favorite. So even though my school is a very religious institution that forces us to engage in several church activities in a week, people still preferred to go to this particular church that was not on our school's premises. People would risk almost anything to go to this church on Sundays (Since my school is a Seventh Day Adventist School).

This retreat was sometime around March, a few days before my birthday. I was so intoxicated with excitement that it didn't even make sense. But it was intriguing to a lot of people. When the pastor asked who wanted to give testimonies, I came forward to the altar and said many things. I thanked God for my legs, my family, and my birthday that was forthcoming.

I giggled a lot and bubbled with so much joy that even the pastor asked me to see him in his office after the service. (It was nothing serious, by the way) Many people wanted to talk to me after listening to the testimony I gave on the stage. They wanted to know why I testified about my legs. They wanted to know what was wrong with my legs.

Okay. Not a lot of people.

But from that event, I made two friends. These two guys were genuinely interested in my story. So I shared it with them — even though I wasn't very comfortable doing that.  A few hours later that night, one of them called me to go outside. There, I met a group of people who told me they would be praying for my legs. All I had to do was sit in the middle and pray along while they circled me and prayed vigorously in tongues, filled with the Holy Ghost.

And just like the other night in the fellowship room, these people prayed for me ceaselessly. Till I, the recipient of the prayers, got tired.

But I was once again filled with more hope and faith for the healing of my legs. The next thing I was trying to do was to look for ways in which I could put my faith into action.

But there wasn't much I could do.

At least, before I got to the conclusion that there was nothing much I could do, I tried some silly things. I tried to force myself to walk like everybody else, thinking that with time, my pretense would morph into a habit, my legs would get used to the new style of walking, and I would become healed like that.

Boy, I didn't even make it through to one week before I dropped the act and walked in the way I knew how to. Trying so hard made my legs hurt, so I couldn't keep up with such a thing.

All I could do was dream lofty dreams of how my legs would get healed, and my manner of walking would become perfect. Those imaginations began to make me overthink. I began to analyze ways in which my legs would become healed.

That led me to begin thinking about going back to India again. Perhaps, another reconstructive surgery would be God's way of healing my legs. After all, my legs were long overdue for another surgery.

Because I was overthinking about getting another surgery, I began to have dreams about having surgery. I'm sure anyone reading this
can relate to this thing. When you think about a particular thing too much, you begin to have dreams about it.

In one of the dreams I had, I was in this spacious cathedral with my mother. The space was scantily filled with people. Two pastors were praying on the altar with a lot of energy.

All of a sudden, in the middle of the prayer session, the pastors approached me and my mother where we were sitting in the church and told me not to dare go for another surgery because the location for the surgery was where the devil was residing and I might regret going for another surgery. The warning was scary.

A few days after I had a dream, I was in a state of confusion, and I was greatly disturbed. I didn't know what to make of the dream. So I decided to talk to someone about it. After I narrated the dream to her, she told me this: "your dream is pretty straightforward. God doesn't want you to go for another surgery. You could choose to pray about the dream, though, and test the spirits."

What she meant was the dream was a sign from God that I could either adhere to or question. I can decide to see the dream for what it is or take action upon it. It was a dicey answer.

I didn't bother praying about it. I knew I wasn't going to get an answer or know which direction to tread on. I knew that if I prayed, I wouldn't be able to hear the voice of God. It's my chaotic thoughts that would fill up my headspace. I wasn't willing to take such a risk — mistaking my voice for the voice of God.

After the interpretation of that dream, I came to terms with the fact that God's plan to heal me might not be the way I thought it would go. Before I had that dream, I was scheming and mentally planning for ways to go for another surgery. My dad was even trying to contact some hospitals abroad for help. I was happy with the slow progression of things. I had little hope that I would go for another surgery.

Then I testified about it during the fellowship, and the fellowship coordinator told me right there that I didn't have to go for another surgery. So, after all of those negative answers to my wishes, I accepted things as they were and didn't bother anymore.

And that caused a slight decline in the faith I'd already built up.

If God wasn't going to heal my legs through the surgery, how else would he heal them then? Will the healing happen like magic? Will I wake up one morning and find myself walking perfectly well?

Those thoughts of healing were kind of shallow to me. I needed a logical manifestation to take place so it would be easier for me to have faith in God. It's the same way people believe that there are God-sent people on earth. Those are physical and much more believable manifestations of God's ability to do something.

I wanted to attribute God's action of healing in my life to a physical occurrence. I didn't want something that could not be explained. Because it didn't make much sense, or rather, it didn't have much meaning to me to have my legs miraculously heal without knowing HOW it happened.

Don't get me wrong.

I'm not saying that unexplainable miracles don't happen. They do. I'm not trying to water down the concept of miracles either. I'm simply speaking from my viewpoint, and I'm being honest in expressing the position of my heart.

For me, I was just trying to have faith. But I needed a solid root to build my faith upon so it wouldn't wither away. I wanted to be able to have solid hopes. I wanted to be able to look forward to something that could happen, something that was physically possible. Having another surgery was that solid hope for me.

So after the whole cycle of hoping for another surgery and then having the hopes dashed, I didn't know what to hold onto or feel.

I still had faith, but it was more of a suspended belief. I no longer exerted my energy or thoughts into thinking of how my legs would get healed. I just left things as they were. I didn't care. I knew it would take forever for the healing to happen.

But somewhere deep down in my mind, there was still a lofty hope residing in me that something good might happen to my legs.

Thus, that was my state of mind for the longest time — acknowledging that God could heal my legs but not necessarily internalizing it. In simpler terms, I was back to the status quo: being numb and nonchalant.

Until I heard another prophecy. And then the draining cycle of hope restarted.