My Sweet Spot: Two Years of Healing

(Not my tum. Just a photo I pulled from online.)

Two years postpartum, I still had pain in my incision site, or what I affectionately call “my sweet spot.”

I named my scar because I wanted to remember the blessing that came from it instead of the pain. But most of the time it felt as if a knife was lodged into one side, and my skin was pinched with a spring clamp.

I had diligently cared for my scar, massaging it daily, and at times, applying ice or heat. I also sought chiropractic and muscle activation therapy, but the pain remained.

Throughout the years, God has aligned me with people who serve as His instruments of healing. Although I continued seeking their help, I didn’t want any physical therapist, chiropractor, supplement, essential oil, or technique to get the credit that only God deserved.

I knew He could heal me instantly, and I prayed He would. Every car trip to the chiropractor, every time I rubbed the scar with cream, every time I felt a stride-stopping-stab, and every time my low back tensed up (which was a correlating issue).

I waited for relief, but it just wasn’t happening.

“So why haven’t You fixed me?” I said. “It’s not like this is a big deal for You. What’s blocking my healing? What am I not doing that I should be?”

As soon as the words snapped out of my mouth, I knew.

I’d been trying everything while resisting one specific solution I knew could provide me a breakthrough.

I needed to go back to church.

Although I wouldn’t describe myself as a church kid, I went to church as a child, stopped attending as an adolescent, and re-engaged during college. Throughout adulthood, I’ve gone on and off, finding it increasingly difficult for multiple reasons.

Prior to my pregnancy, Charlie and I were church shopping. We attended a church for two months before we were turned off and uninterested once again. We also had been watching another church online, unsure whether it was a place we should go. But every time I looked for other options, I ended up back on the church’s website, watching sermons.

I reasoned we’d try it out when things calmed down, when the weather cooled, and when I felt more comfortable managing a toddler—procrastination dressed up as planning. It was easier to stay home. To watch online or not watch at all. To sleep in. Why go deal with people? With church drama? With all those things that were the reason I always stopped going to every church I had ever attended?

Some people would say going to church no longer matters, that because Jesus redeemed us, we no longer have to.

While I don’t believe church attendance determines whether we get into Heaven, not going to church was weighing on me. I couldn’t keep disregarding God’s moral code. If murder was still wrong, what made it okay to ignore the fourth commandment—the longest commandment of all 10? After all, Jesus didn’t do away with the Ten Commandments. He honored the Sabbath.

And I did too. For years, on my Sabbath, I have refrained from work, errands, and exercise. I keep my body still and set my heart and mind on God. When I honor the Lord in this way, He refreshes my soul, and life flows more orderly. I thought this with prayers, declarations, and patience, would provide me full recovery. But after two years, I realized I wouldn’t find healing by simply taking a day of rest.

I remained out of order physically because I remained out of order spiritually.

My problem wouldn’t heal if I continued doing what I had always done. I would only find relief by pursuing The Healer in the way He commanded, in one of His designated, holy houses of worship, gathered with brothers and sisters in Jesus.

So, I went back to church.

Our second Sunday, the pastor called anyone who needed healing to the altar.

I went. They prayed. The pastor, who had no idea I still felt pain from pregnancy-induced carpal tunnel, grabbed my hand. “Be healed!” he said.

“Move your bodies. Let us know if you’re healed,” he told everyone.

I clenched my fist and rubbed my sweet spot.

No change.

But I keep believing.

The following Sunday, a pastor called on women who needed healed. I had never participated in a women-only altar call, but I just couldn’t stay in my seat.

For healing to happen something had to break inside of me. I had to do what I had never done before. I had to humble myself to approach the altar that first day, to admit publicly that I needed the Church. I had to allow other believers to come close, gently place their hands on me, and pray. And I had to act on faith to return to the altar again.

At the front of the sanctuary, I stood there feeling awkward, pressing my shoes into the floor, determined that if I had to stand there all day to feel healed, I would. I would go again, and again, and again. I would go to God as many times as it took because I just had to heal, and I had to heal because, with all my desire, I just had to go to God, to revere His rhythm.

That’s when one of my midwives wrapped her arms around me and prayed. Although I didn’t blame any of the women involved with the unexpected turn of events during the birth of my child, in some deep-rooted way, I felt hurt by them, especially by the female obstetrician who had literally cut me to the core. I had already verbally released my resentment and decided to forgive, but in my midwife’s long, Holy Spirit-led hug choice met feeling. Choice met healing. And I felt immediate relief in my sweet spot.

Weeks later, I wondered if the pain would return, but every time I thought I might feel a symptom, I swatted down doubt with God’s word, and I finally decided to tell people that, at church, I was delivered from pain.

Two years postpartum and six months after returning to church, my sweet spot is fully healed. I still have some other things going on, but God will heal them too as I pursue Him in ways I never have before. In church, I’ve sat through my usual questions and doubts, wondering where my family and I fit in and if I really want to invest my time there. I’ve agreed and disagreed with things, and I keep going back. Not because I’m sure it’s our forever church, but because I’m in pursuit, healed, healing, and I will not give up.

I must stay in rhythm with Jehovah Rapha, our God who heals.

So many of us are seeking healing in every way we know how. But we are not made to chase solutions—doctor’s recommendations, healthcare appointments, podcasts, more creams, supplements, or trendy wellness wonders. These things can be helpful and necessary, but they can also become idols.

When you’re praying, don’t know what else to do, and the Lord leads you to these kinds of solutions, I believe—whether they work or not—God knows your heart and will honor your desire. He’ll keep leading you through the right process that will ultimately bring Him the glory.

We must remember we are free people. Free people don’t slave away at healing. They stop and honor His sacred design.

So many of us resist church. But honoring the Sabbath and gathering with other believers is where we can find breakthroughs. Studies show that people who honor the Sabbath are physically healthier. Re-enacting His rhythm keeps us close to Him. It produces an ordered soul that physically manifests in our bodies. So, if you’re seeking healing and you’ve tried everything except church, go.

(And on the other hand, if you’re seeking healing only by going to church but not caring for your body--- the temple of the Holy Spirit---perhaps it’s time to do some practical stuff like nutrition and exercise.)

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Since 2004, Tami McCandlish has worked alongside her husband coaching thousands of people in exercise and wellness.

She is a National Academy of Sports Medicine Certified Personal Trainer, Behavior Change Specialist, Golf Fitness Specialist, Youth Exercise Specialist, and Fitness Nutritional Specialist, and holds a B.A. in English and Journalism from Ohio Wesleyan University.

Tami is also a writer and the author of Let the Bees Buzz: Finding Redemption in the Aftermath of School Bullying.

For more on connecting faith and fitness and for stories about the healing of broken hearts, minds, and bodies join her email list at www.tamimccandlish.com.