I’m Healed, Not Cured: There’s a Difference

“I’m praying you are healed.”

I can’t even count the number of times I’ve been offered prayers when I’ve been in a medical struggle. I love it. I love knowing that people care enough about me to lift me up in prayer and keep me in their thoughts. Knowing that I belong to a loving community is a balm on my soul.

That said…

When I tell people that God healed me, they too often think that means I’m cured. “Oh, I’m so glad to hear you aren’t on medication anymore!” they might exclaim, or “God is so good to take that thorn from you.”

Um. Not quite.

I’ve been healed, but I haven’t been cured. I pray. I believe. I belong to small groups. I still live with bipolar disorder. I still take my little white pill every day. I still claim healing.

I think it’s a myth to believe that God’s healing only appears in the form of a cure. I think we cheapen and diminish his power when we insist that his miracles must be grand and match our expectations.

I have healthy relationships now, which I didn’t have before. I belong to several online and real-life communities now; an impossible idea just a couple of years ago. I am more than an average mom these days; my transformation in that area takes my breath away, and the relationship I have with Harper now brings me tears of joy.

I’ve been healed, but I haven’t been cured.

In therapy, stories from my past surfaced. I believe that each time, God presented me an opportunity for more healing. Acknowledging my hurts, my traumas, and my wounds helped me experience Jesus and grace and compassion in ways I never imagined.

I’ve learned that in the moments I want to hide most from God, to pretend most never happened — regardless of my victimhood or guilt in the situation — he was there anyway, with me through it all.

Jesus saw it all. He knew it all. He cared about it all. He loved me through it all. He forgave it all.

There’s healing in that forgiveness and grace.

Beyond that, my diagnosis helped me see how my disorder influenced my decisions and actions. While I’m still responsible for what I’ve done, how I’ve hurt people, and will always live with the knowledge of what I’ve done, I have a name for my experiences now.

I can look back at my life and say, “Oh, that was hypomania.” “I wish I had known how depressed I was.” “I wish I knew that my irritability was more than just work stress.”

Compassion enters the cracks of my life and fills those gaps with love, leaving no room for the judgment that lived there previously.

There’s healing in that.

God may choose someday to cure me of my bipolar disorder; he is big enough and capable of it. Honestly, it would be nice not to have the stress of making sure I took my pill today or wondering if my happy feelings and bright eyes were a signal of an oncoming hypomanic phase.

My diagnosis helped me see how my disorder influenced my decisions and actions.

But I think I’m more like Paul, destined to live my life with this thorn in my side. This thorn that reminds me how much I need Jesus. How big his grace is.

I remember that Paul received healing, too, from God. He may not have been cured of his thorn, but he was healed of his bigotry and persecution. He was healed of the wounds that caused him pain and led him to lash out at others.

I’m not cured.

I’m healed.