I don’t believe in visions. Well, at least I don’t have them. But here is one thing I imagined during a recent time in prayer. It’s graphic, but I am a kid of the “Extreme Ultra Surround Sound 1990s”, the age of Image Comics and over-exaggerated everything, so sometimes my imagination runs a little wild. In defense of the nineties, however, the below scene is more akin to the 1980s film Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom than anything else.
I was angry, bitter really. What led to this I cannot say, but my lacking tenderness was evident. I did not want to pray for whom I felt led, and much of what I had to say to the Most High was laced with a certain level of indignation. I had to even take a moment to pray that the Sprit would move in me to make me want to pray for others as I should.
Answers come when we pray in truth.
I envisioned Christ walking toward me and without a word punching his fist into my chest. He ripped my heart from my body and, behold, it was stone–gray with tributaries of black throughout its frozen form.
With his strong, nail-pierced hands, he caressed it, even as I watched him in disbelief. As he massaged the surface of my hardened heart, the rocks began to chip away, and the debris began to rain toward the ground. It broke to dust in the air and was carried away before any of it hit below me. The dead encasing gone, my organ lay in his hand, still lifeless and pale pink.
With one faithful grasp of his hand, gentle enough not to damage but strong enough to have effect, Christ brought life to it again. I heard the faint thumping of it pass through the holes in his palms. Blood burst from the edges as the rich crimson color returned to the muscle. With a smile, Christ tenderly returned the living flesh to my body, and as his hand left my chest, the gaping wound closed.
My heart bled, and I prayed. I hurt for those who hurt and expressed joy for those who were joyous. I prayed and praised, and my heart was as Christ’s.
So be it.