I suppose it’s interesting why I am here. A bit interesting, anyway.
You see, I am a mystic. And for most of my life, I played the Clark Kent role to my Superman.
Not that I was Superman.
But I certainly knew what it was to be Clark Kent.
I learned at a very young age to conform to the way other people behaved. To think like they did. To be concerned with what they were concerned with.
It tore me upside, really, to not be off on my own, thinking about God. Having visions. Wanting to learn more and more and more and more and…, well, you get the idea.
As I grew, the way people thought went from being a confusion for me, to be just plain annoying.
I stopped even wanting to interrupt them and say, Why don’t you think about that in another way?
Why can’t you look at that person with compassion instead of impatience?
Why can’t you stop thinking of yourself for even one minute?
That kind of thing.
Well, I got old. Along the way I faced dragons. Some bigger than others.
I learned how to fight them.
And win.
Which was nice.
But costly.
My health suffered. The matters of my life suffered.
It seemed that the more I actually won the battles, the less I, as a person, had to my life.
And so I found myself ill, anxious, and wondering where I was.
But there were the visions, now, of how I should write.
Write.
Write.
Write.
If God is anything, he’s repetitive.
And I would try this kind of writing. And that kind of writing.
But I wouldn’t get very far on any of them.
The fact was, I didn’t want to be Clark Kent writing about what it was like to be Superman.
(Again, I wasn’t Superman. Just someone who wanted to keep certain aspects of me very private.)
I just couldn’t do it.
I couldn’t write about me with any thought of having anyone else read what I was writing. So what was the point of writing?
And then it happened.
The doctor said, Julia, you have a few months to live.
And I believed him.
I really did.
And I thought two things: (1) I didn’t want to be bored while I waited for death; and (2) I can’t remember what the other thing was now, but there was another one (I promise).
So I thought: I’m now officially stuck at home dying, what can I do?
And the answer: I’ll write! I can write and write and write about myself and since I’ll be dead in a few months, people can do whatever they want with my writing, and I won’t have to see it. I won’t have to care about being called insane or fanciful or a liar.
I can write. And I can die.
Perfect.
Except I didn’t die.
I started a blog. Where I write about myself. I post other things, too. But I write there.
I’m starting my fifth year.
And I have experienced the most amazing thing: respect. People have treated me with kindness. And even respect.
Hard to believe, I know. But true.
So then I realized that I am passionately interesting in the Christian healing prayer ministry, but was shocked to find that there was no website that served as a resource for this kind of ministry.
So I started one.
Or, it started up on its own. Really.
I mentioned my thoughts to a friend, who happens to “do” websites for a living, and Wham-O! the very next day, there it was – my own website.
And I got to play on it. Design the pages. Figure out what was going to go where. Do the research.
Do the work.
Goodness.
Just, goodness.
But there it was on my new website: The Blog.
And I thought, but I have a blog.
Should I bring that blog here?
Well, no.
Not at all.
So what do I do with this one?
Well, I thought to myself. I could write about healing matters. In small ways. In big ways. Post prayers. Blessings. Inspiration.
Do things.
More immediate.
More to the point of what this website is all about.
So, the bottom line is: I am here because I didn’t die.
And it’s what I like to do.
Write.
Which is kind of funny, after all.
After all those years avoiding it.
Yet another example of: God wins.
The nice thing about that, though, is that even though God wins, I don’t lose.
I get to win, too.
