At my park, once named Bethel, the bank of the pond is stately with sycamore trees. Some gleam pure white, their skins having peeled away in the steamy heat of July. Some are spotted brown and yellow like the strong necks of quiet giraffes.
In this cold winter, I nicknamed these giants “sick-no-more trees”. Perhaps it was in the strenuous days of my bronchitis, when from an icy bench I imagined, even called for these bold, stalwart beings to impart to me their seemingly infinite reservoir of strength.
But sycamores and I both receive our life blood from the One. I don’t have to wait, like the man laying by the pool of Bethesda, for the wind to blow the sycamore’s limbs. I am healed because Jesus died to heal me. It is finished, He said. On my walks with God I began to see a different definition of “healed”. In Jesus, I am healed—as white as new sycamore skin. But I will die to this earth. My body belongs here, used up, unsaved, mortal. My soul will go to Him, washed and healed, as surely as it was traveling along in this sometimes coughing, cold, tired body.
Jesus heals me miraculously, He heals me here through doctors, medicine, and Spiritual guidance. And Jesus has healed me completely, from anguish, from want, from need of anything but Him and His cleansing work. To know His healing is to be wholly healed.
A large crowd followed him, and he healed all who were ill. Matthew 12:15
Meeting God at the Park 