Does God Use Doctors?

Anderson Regional Cancer Center

 

About three years ago, Mr. Billy Mashburn, of Buckatunna Mississippi, was diagnosed with a tumor in his colon. Dr. Phillips of Meridian estimated the tumor to be “lemon” or “orange” sized. An MRI was done and an appointment was made at Anderson Regional Cancer Center. Mr. Mashburn’s treatment plan included 36 treatments of radiation and once a week chemotherapy for twelve weeks, and then surgery. The doctors were optimistic.

The night before his first scheduled treatment, Mr. Mashburn had the pastor and elders of Free Will Baptist Church to anoint him with oil and pray for divine healing.

When he arrived at his first appointment, Dr. Anderson greeted him with grave news. The doctors had studied the MRI for seven hours. They were perplexed. They couldn’t find a safe position to target the tumor without damaging healthy cells. They gave Mr. Mashburn no hope.

 

They performed a second x-ray. Dr. Anderson was amazed. The tumor had miraculously moved to the outside of the colon. It was in plain sight. Mr. Mashburn immediately praised God, but the good doctor cautioned him that he wasn’t healed yet. Mr. Mashburn was told to expect radiation sickness, he’d lose his hair, and become fatigued during the treatments. Only if the treatments were successful, did the surgery stand a chance.

God had his hand on Mr. Mashburn. He never lost his hair. He didn’t get sick. In fact, he never missed a day of work. He drove a school bus in the mornings, and then went for his treatment. He did miss the evening pickup, but only because of appointment times, not because of fatigue. The surgery was successful.

Though the doctor’s prognosis was hopeless. Mr. Mashburn survived his bout with cancer, and is now enjoying life with his two sons, seven grandchildren, and one great-grandchild.

Isn’t our God wonderful?

This is Mr. Billy Mashburn's testimony. I thank him for allowing me to share it with you.

Please leave a comment and share yours.

Foot Washing - A personal Testimony

Being new to the Pentecostal domination I love to hear testimonies of brush arbors and six-week tent revivals. Fire running through the rafters. Goiters falling off. But foot washings? Not something I aspired to do. Who wants to wash someone’s dirty nasty feet? Thank God it is not required anymore. Or is it?

 

One Sunday, instructed by our Pastor the adult Sunday school teacher deviated from curriculum and taught on communion. Her first question—What does communion mean to you?—prompted various answers. Ranging from the humorous (grape juice in a cup and a stale cracker) to the serious (check point - a time to reflect on the sacrifice Jesus made on the cross).

How could grape juice signify the blood? How can a stale cracker do justice to the broken body of Jesus? Our finite minds failed to grasp the full concept of communion. A pondering hush settle over the sanctuary.

Until a frail feminine voice from in the back said, “You know… used to be when we took communion… afterward… we’d have a foot washing.”

What? A foot washing? What did washing feet have to do with taking communion?

The elderly sister in the back quoted John 13:14 “If I then, your Lord and Master, have washed your feet; ye also ought to wash one another’s feet.” KJV

Pages quickly turned to John chapter thirteen. Led by our teacher, we we’re reminded that Jesus washed his disciples’ feet during the Passover supper. The first foot washing took place during the first communion. Although I knew both events occurred, I never realized they went hand-in-hand or hand-in-feet.

The class began to reminisce of foot washings in the past. And how the Holy Ghost moved in such services. Did I mention I love hearing about such things?

As the bell sounded indicating the end of Sunday school our teacher vowed to hold a communion/foot washing service during the adult class. All participating in the discussion agreed. We needed to have a foot washing sometime during the next few weeks.

But isn’t it great when God’s ideas supersede our own? Church services began. The choir sang. Before the pastor could begin his sermon people began to testify of the good things the Lord had done. The Holy Ghost gently breezed into the sanctuary. Conviction fell and the people, myself included, flooded the altars.

It’s impossible to describe the presence of the Lord. You either feel him or you don’t. His greatness surrounded me and I realized the smallness of myself in comparison. Dirty and unclean in my sinful nature, urgent for a cleansing, burdened for a foot washing, I prayed. The Holy Ghost whispered a vision of my Sunday school teacher washing my feet. I wanted to run for a basin of water but fear of disrupting the service held me in place. The urge intensified, yet I doubted. Did God want basins of water in his sanctuary or did I?

Our pastor discerning of the Holy Ghost spoke into the microphone. “The Holy Ghost just spoke to someone to get up and do something. Do it now, in the name of Jesus.”

Thank God for confirmation. In the fellowship hall two dishpans fell to the floor as I opened the cabinet. The words “one for the men and one for the women” whispered through my heart. Quickly (thinking only of myself and my need to be cleansed) I threw two dish cloths into the pans, tossed two towels over my shoulder, filled the pans, and hurried back to the sanctuary with one of them.

Miraculously not one drop of water sloshed over the side of the pans during the two trips to the sanctuary. The people praying in the altars didn’t notice the pans of water placed in front of the communion table. Two folding chairs from the fellowship hall completed the vision.

Back at my place in the altars, desperately praying for permission to sit in one of the chairs, a hand tapped my shoulder. With tears in her eyes, my Sunday school teacher pointed to one of the chairs. The pastor sat in the second chair removing his shoes as a male church member knelt waiting to wash his feet.

Anxiously wanting to experience something new in the Lord, I smiled and sat in the chair. But as my sister in Christ knelt down in front of me and lifted my foot in her hand, humiliation washed over me. Tears began to pour. Why should she be on the floor in her beautiful Sunday dress while I sat high above her in my ordinary one?

A trickle of water hit the top of my foot and the anointing flowed from the top of my head to the soles of my feet. I began to weep uncontrollably. My sister spoke in a heavenly language. As she bathed my feet, first one then the other, a semblance of the humiliation Christ felt hanging on the cross swept over me. Unworthy and unclean, I wanted to spring from the chair. Covering my face with my hands, I tried to hide. My voice mingled with hers as Christ’s love washed over me. In that moment, lost in the Holy Ghost, the depth of Christ sacrifice and his love for me became abundantly clear.

After she dried my feet, we quickly switched places. Bathing her feet, the privilege of being Christ’s servant hit me. I didn’t deserve to be here feeling his presence. I didn’t deserve to be a vessel. But yet, Christ saw fit to humble himself on a cross to lift me from the pit of sin and place me in a position to bring him glory.

The sweet mist of the Holy Ghost surrounded us both. Afterward we both stood worshipping and praising the Lamb. Two other women quickly took our place in the chair and pan of water. They too began to weep and groan in the Spirit. Others stood nearby with looks of longing on their faces. The men likewise spoke with tongues and wept as they bathed one another’s feet. As soon as the chairs were vacated they quickly filled. No one ran. No one shouted. None danced in the Spirit. Strong men wept. Tongues were spoken. In the atmosphere of Jehovah, I wondered if my brothers and sisters felt the awe of the cross or the glory of his resurrection as I did.

 

Today, I still love to hear about the good old days. But I’m glad I experienced the humbling power of a foot washing first hand. How ironic that while elevated in the chair, I was humbled, but while kneeling, the privileges of serving was made real to me.

My finite mind could not understand how grape juice, a stale cracker, and a basin of water represented the sacrifice of the cross. But the power of the Holy Ghost allowed my soul to commune with the humility and serving-love of my savior, the Lord Jesus Christ.                                               

~ Bridgett Henson

A Poem for Charles Giles

This past week, my stepson was brutally murdered. He was 24 years old. Because of the circumstances of his death, we have no remains to bury. All we have are tears, photographs and perhaps later on a few ashes.

On top of our loss, we have been criticized and judged harshly for every parental decision during his short life. Though my husband and I are not perfect, we love Charles unconditionally.

I wrote this poem 22 years ago, on the day I met my future stepson, Charles Devin Giles. I pray that he reads this from heaven as a testament that he was loved.

 

Charles

 

Charles, he was the greatest shock

in my life. Only two years old,

and if I was asked yesterday he

wouldn’t have existed. I wished

I would’ve known of him sooner,

and I wished he was mine. But if

he was mine then he wouldn’t be

Charles. Part of him would be

missing and that missing part of

his mother would make him less of

a love to me.

 

I must never try to take her place

because it’s not possible. But

how I would treasure the return

of my love for him. If only words

could describe my emotions for

him and his life.

 

He and his father how fast they

have changed my heart. In one

love I envy her; In the other I thank

her.

 

But why should she have all the love

and joy of a Charles. Why can’t I

be as blessed as she. For as my eyes

see, she is blind of charles and his

love. How can God let him be hers

when I need so badly, and she does not

want anything. My heart cries for Charles.

 

Should the time come, would he love me

and mine any less than Charles, Or

should he love Charles the less; My

heart says NO! For me and mine do not

want for Charles’ love, but only for

our own. Without our own we would

be incomplete, and not filled; empty

inside.

 

I hope I asked not too much from him

to love not only Charles. I ask not

for more love but only an equal amount.

 

Pray he to understand my wants as well

as my needs. Pray he to share his

love; Pray he to be fair with his

judgment.

                        ~ Bridgett Ann Davis

 

A Tale of Amazing Grace and My Uncle Charlie

This post is based on my childhood memories. I hope it doesn’t offend other relatives.

 

 

A Tale of True Amazing Grace

 

Maybe it was the images and memories of the Vietnam War
or it could have been the car wreck after he was discharged from the Army,
but my Uncle Charlie wasn’t quite “all there.” Even though he’d sit in the front yard
cussing an unseen enemy, I won’t call him crazy because I loved him
and he was my friend.

My mom assures me that before the war, he was very intelligent
and held a prestigious position in the army.
I should look up his military records but the solider wasn’t who I knew.

When I was a kid, bored during a visit at Maw-maw’s house, he was my playmate.
He and all my other bored cousins.
We thought that he was playing pretend and we’d sneak up behind him,
wait for just the right moment and tackle him.
Looking back, I see the miracle in that he didn’t mistake us for the enemy.
Instead he retaliated with hand to hand combat in the form of tickles
and rolls across the yard.
He always looked out for us, calling “watch for snakes” and “stay out of the road.”

Did he tell on us for setting the woods on fire?

Nope.
He simply put out the fire, drove us to a small country store, and bought us ice cream.

I won’t mention the fire later that night after the wind revived the coals.

Like all children must, I grew up. Then I married and moved away.
When I finally returned to my roots, Uncle Charlie was old, sick, and dying.
As I Christian I began to wonder, if he was saved.

Was his mind lucid enough to understand the concept of salvation?

I began to pray.

I wanted assurance that my beloved playmate would make it to heaven.

God is good and he answered that prayer in a unique way.
I wasn’t there when Uncle Charlie took his final breath,
but my mother was and this is what she told me…

My mom had driven from Tennessee to be with her brother.
Uncle Charlie was weak, on oxygen, and freshly released from the ICU.

There was nothing more the doctors could do.

Death was a matter of time.

One morning, as his breath grew shallow;
he turned to my mother. With wonder in his eyes and said,
“Jesus wants to hold my hand. Why? Why does Jesus want to hold my hand?”

I don’t remember what mom told him, or who else she said was in the room,
but I do know he was too weak to lift his head.

Yet my uncle reached toward heaven and smiled.

His hand then floated to the mattress and he was gone.

God answered my prayer with Uncle Charlie's final words.

I picture him now in heaven, sitting cross-legged by The River of Life.

Instead of curses for the enemy, praise for his savior rolls off his tongue.

One day, I plan to sneak up and tackle him.

I wonder…Is there ice cream in heaven?

 

 

 

For Ladies Only - A Healing Testimony

 

 

I’ve never been one to have female “problems.” My monthly visitor would arrive, stay about four days and leave, only to reappear the next month right on schedule.

 

Until I had my third child. Then the visitor wasn’t so gentle and stayed longer than welcomed. Over the next 8 years, I stocked Midol as the symptoms grew worse. By spring of 2012, my visitor was an unwelcomed guest, staying for three weeks, leaving for two, and returning for an addition three weeks. It was a hideous cycle. Something was obviously wrong with my body. But…

 

I haven’t had medical insurance in twelve years. My bank account was empty. So I prayed that God would heal me.

 

 He didn’t and my symptoms grew worse.

 

 At my church, we have some great nurses. Their advice was the same as my mom’s. Go to the doctor. But, I haven’t had medical insurance in twelve years? And I haven’t visited a doctor since my daughter was born eight years ago. Previously, I depended on the Lord to heal me and he had. Time and time again. So why wasn’t he healing me now? I prayed again and again.

 

The Lord answered, “Don’t worry. I’ve healed you before, I can heal you again.”

 

But He didn’t.

 

Finally, in September, the visitor refused to leave. By the end of October, I was using one “super plus” sanitary product an hour. That’s not a typo. Yes, One per hour. With the added protection of an extra thick liner.

 

After SIX WEEKS of this horrible nightmare, I became so weak, I could barely get out of the bed. I literally thought I would die. Since, God hadn’t answered my prayer, I gave in to the commands around me and made an appointment. $1700 later, the doctor diagnosed me with tumors in the uterus. I don’t know the technical term he used. But basically it was this. Since the tumors were isolated in the uterus, they shouldn’t grow, and should eventually shrink after menopause. I could have surgery or make my visitor welcome until after menopause.

 

Hello! I’m only forty. And did I mention the ONE sanitary product an HOUR for going on SEVEN weeks straight now. And he wants me to wait a “few” to ten years. No, thank you.

Surgery? I did mention no medical insurance and my empty bank account. Right?

 

My visitor and I went home, crawled in bed, and cried into the pillow. Why wouldn’t God heal me? A few nights later, though weak, I dressed and forced myself to church. During the choir, as the congregation worshiped, the Spirit descended. Someone laid their hand on my head and prayed. Instantly, energy surged through my weak body as God spoke. “I’ve healed you before. I’m healing you again.”

 

I shouted all over that platform. Thanking God, for His touch.

 

When I got home, my visitor was gone. Hallelujah!

 

Since November 2012, I haven't returned to the doctor. There’s no need. Now, months later, the visitor sometimes peeks its head in the door, but doesn’t stay longer than three days.

 

The lesson learned? If I hadn’t doubted God’s healing ability, I wouldn’t have $1700 in medical bills. I’m not saying that He doesn’t sometimes use doctors. But I’d rather be healed by God’s touch than by a scalpel.

 

Can I get an Amen?