The Voice

I've reached a point in life that makes me question my own sanity. A little. Okay, not much, really.
I've thought long and hard, and for many years, about the voice of God. Some people claim they can hear Him speaking to them. Moses clearly heard him. My Sunday school kids decided they had never actually heard the voice. And I had to agree...while there were several times in life I felt compelled by his will, I hadn't really ever heard Him speak to me.

Till recently.

I don't really know when it started. I think there were a few occasions when I asked God a question in my head, silently, and immediately a response, not in my own voice, came back to me. Then it became kind of....conversational. I would say something, mentally, and then a response would come. At first I thought I was crazy, and just answering my own questions and responding to my own statements. Then I realized I just wasn't. I can't tell you how I know it isn't just that, me talking to myself, but I just know it isn't.

So, I've started to pray differently. More frequently. More conversationally. Weird things began to happen.
For instance, not long ago, I was in a car wreck. A snow plow demolished the front of my van. I knew, ahead of time, that it was coming. I said it, this time out loud, as I drove. "God this snow plow driver doesn't see me!"
I know. It's going to be okay. You're going to be okay."
As I opened my door and realized my legs could support me, my arms could move, and no blood was dripping off me, I knew He had assured me of this. I was okay. But it was more than his assurance. I heard Him.


A few weeks later, we were having a typical Sunday night at our house. Sunday nights are brutal; it's as if the two days off from school was a year. No one knows where their hat or backpack is, or what they want for lunch. The oldest kid remembers, "oh yeahhhh..." that I am supposed to call parents to ask for volunteers for the upcoming Valentine party. The youngest simply doesn't want to go to school, and therefore, will not take a bath. Somehow, it equates, in his mind.

Frustrated, I head downstairs to feed the bunnies. I give them each a generous handful of hay, and watch as they attack it hungrily. Then something happens. Marley, the little girl in the middle, must have swallowed a piece whole. She begins choking. Gasping for air. Green stuff is oozing from her nose and I am freaking out. I try to open her mouth to see if I can dislodge something, but it's impossible for me to accomplish. She's fighting me, and fighting to breathe. I am shaking and panicking, and I run upstairs to tell my husband the bunny is choking and I can't do it. I really can't. I have this animal...thing. I love them, too much, and I can't see them in any sort of compromised state. I curse myself for even having pets; I am a nutcase when it comes to any sort of illness or injury for any of them.

My husband goes downstairs and stays down there for a long time. I am convinced she is dying, or dead. I am googling "rabbits choking" and getting all sorts of gruesome diagnoses. Death. Painful death.
There's a bunny heimlich option, but it's a long shot, and it's dangerous in itself.
In another half hour or so, Randy comes upstairs, presumably to give me the bad news.

"She's just sitting here, now, on the carpet. She hopped around a little and she's a little shaken up, but I think she's okay."

I race down the stairs, scooping Marley into my arms. She is panicked and seems weaker, but she is breathing a little better. I'm still worried she won't make it through the night. Rabbits are ridiculously delicate creatures.

The next morning, she is sitting up in her cage. She sniffs and eats a tiny piece of her banana, offered from my hand. She is timid, and she hasn't had any water or pellets all night. I let her out to wander the family room, which she does, but not as enthusiastically as she usually does. I tell myself she is still just weak and uncertain. Maybe her throat hurts. Maybe her stomach hurts. That night, she still hasn't eaten and I pick her up, cuddling her to my chest. She sniffs me curiously, but then lays her head down, defeated. I cup my hand over her tiny back and become angry. She was such a fun, adorable little bunny, just yesterday!
"God, help her! She is one of your creatures. Why won't you help her, she's scared. I know she's an animal. I know you have more important things to work on, but I am sooo bad at this. Please just help her."

Some creatures are stubborn about healing.

That's the response I got. Stubborn about healing?
I laid in bed, after putting Marley back in her cage. Again, I figured she'd be dead in the morning. I began my usual kind of prayer, not really starting with "Dear God," or anything formal:
People are stubborn about healing, God, you're right. People want it their way. They want control. They want sympathy. They want everyone else to be miserable. They want all sorts of different things, I guess. Sometimes, I don't even know that they want to get better. Could that be? I should say 'we'. I'm people, too. But animals? How do they even know to be stubborn?"

The response, clear as day:

"People need to want to be healed. People need to seek healing. Animals? They never want to feel bad. But they usually don't want your help, either. It's not natural. They don't understand the conflict."

This morning, I had my husband do the initial "bunny check." I can't go down and find her dead. I did that once, when I was about six years old...found our dog dead, in the garage. It stays with ya.

"She's eating hay, and sitting up." Awestruck, I filled the colander with fresh greens and banana slices, determined to see her eat. She nibbled a few bites of mustard greens and then ate most of her banana slice. It's her favorite. I felt a little better. Then she hopped 180 degrees and turned her back to me. Creatures are stubborn about their healing. Normally, I'd force her to turn around and try to get some more nourishment in her. Instead, I laid the rest of the greens on the cage floor, freshened her water and made sure she had some pellets, just in case.

"I'm willing to wait this out with you, Marley, if you're willing to try."

As I go through this day, I still don't know that she's going to make it. She looks better, but I know rabbits tend to look better than they are. It's a defense mechanism for prey animals. Being stubborn is sort of a defense mechanism for humans, I suppose.
Somehow, though, I have to realize it's just not up to me.

It's going to be okay. No matter what.