There’s this quirky corner of the Internet called Catholic Twitter––which, much as the name implies, is a community of Catholics from all vocations, charisms, and ages who bond, joke, and pray together on Twitter.
Early in February, SEEK21, this year’s FOCUS (Fellowship of Catholic University Students) conference, was held virtually. Around that time, the tweet I shared for the 2020 conference resurfaced. It was a sappy 280 characters, praising Jesus for the strides made in my healing from chronic illness between the 2019 and 2020 conferences. It included a picture from each year: one where pain is etched into my half-smiling face, and the other where I’m smiling big at the summit of an Arizona mountain that we snuck away to hike. The tweet expressed gratitude for the lessons learned through a slow healing, rather than the one-time, miraculous healing that I had so often begged for.
Seeing the tweet again in 2021 hit me like a ton of bricks, as I found myself logging into this year’s virtual conference from a hospital bed. “Healing is not linear,” 2020 Olivia reminded me. And indeed it isn’t.
Our faith is shrouded in mystery, and our understanding of healing through Jesus is no exception. For a chronically ill person who, short of a miracle, will continue to manage my conditions for as long as I live, “Get well soon!” or “I’ll pray you are healed” feel like daggers to my heart.
Though I trust the Church and Her Wisdom, the talk of linear healing––you’re either healed or not––are rooted in some traditions. It is perpetuated around conversations of apparitions, and especially the canonization process, in which complete, black-and-white healing is used as proof. It’s easy for the broken nature of humanity to convince us that if our healing is not concrete, then either God does not love us or we do not trust Him enough.
My church community lost a dear friend on Feb. 11––a sweet 12-year old girl named Djoulie. My parish has a deep relationship with a mission in Haiti, and Djoulie was one of the beloved orphans. She was very sick, and as her own battle with chronic illness was coming to an end, thousands of people (many from Catholic Twitter) rallied to pray fervently for her healing. And then she passed. Some wondered if those prayers went unheard, some saw answered prayers in the people drawn back to Jesus through her witness, and others merely delighted in the thought of sweet Djoulie dancing pain-free with Jesus, her King. But the all-too-common narrative of “healed or not” leads us to believe that we failed. We did not pray hard enough or her sickness was too great––but neither is true. It presumes linear healing.
This false concept of linear healing, healing with distinct a “before and after,” arguably dabbles in ableism. The deep desire to be rid of our illness assumes that said illness makes us less than. As someone who is chronically ill, I desire this identity to be more than something to be prayed for, more than something undesirable.
It is uniquely challenging to have a permanent, invisible illness. We humans often lead with judgment and not understanding. If I don’t stand-sit-kneel in Mass, it’s not a sign of spiritual weakness; it’s because of pain. If I’m checking my watch, I’m not checking my messages; I’m checking my heart rate monitor. If someone leaves after communion, do we assume it’s a lack of devoutness, or do we understand it could be beyond our understanding? Many of us hide medical devices under clothing and conceal our pain under masks, literal or figurative.
The chronically ill are also not “inspirational” for suffering consistently. Yes, some people suffer heroically, and its redemptive qualities cannot be ignored. Most of the time, however, it is just plain suffering. When I struck up an interest in Bl. Chiara Luce Badano, I hoped that she would teach me to suffer joyfully like in her battle with cancer. However, people assumed I chose a Blessed in hopes that my healing would be her second miracle. That’s a possibility I wouldn’t deny, but it was far from my primary intention. I want Jesus to teach me that healing is neither linear nor does it make sense. And my body does not need to be perfect to praise Him. Like all Catholics, I hope for healing in paradise, and that is enough for me. Until then, I’ll keep climbing mountains, whatever that may look like each day.
Previously the Campus News Editor and Catholicism 101 Editor, Olivia dabbles in The Torch’s writing and photography. She is a senior studying theology and applied psychology and human development with a minor in journalism. She is unashamedly passionate about youth ministry, Haiti, all things charismatic, the Oxford comma, and CatholicTV––where she can often be found as an on-camera news reporter or host of the To the Heights podcast.
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