Spiritual healing isn't chancy

Jenny Sawyer

I was in my element that day over spring break, racing down the powdery slopes on a pair of skis I'd been given as a Christmas present.

My mom, sister, and I had taken an extended weekend trip to Lutsen, a ski area north of Duluth, Minnesota, where we'd hoped to catch some late skiing before the season was over. My sister and I were making the most of that Saturday, knowing we'd have only half of Sunday to ski before we'd be on our way back home.

For the most part, the snow had been perfect—not too packed, not too powdery. But late that Saturday afternoon, as I carved my way down a steep, narrow mountain pass, I hit an icy spot, followed by a boulder-sized chunk of snow, which sent me careening out of control, and then tumbling partway down the otherwise carefully-groomed slope.

Once I came to a stop, I managed to get up, collect my equipment, and make it the rest of the way down the mountain. I was embarrassed and shaken. And though I was able to ski, my knee was already throbbing.

Later that evening, sitting in the hotel room, my whole leg felt as if it were on fire, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't seem to get comfortable. As was our practice in facing illness and injury, my mom and I prayed together before I went to bed, but some time later I woke up, unable to sleep because of the pain.

Not one of God's children can ever suffer from, or benefit from, chance.

As we prayed, my mom and I began to talk about our car trip up to the ski area. I'd been sad to see the number of casinos we'd passed along the way—all of which had parking lots that were overflowing with cars. After passing about the sixth casino (not to mention a string of billboards that touted the "loosest slots in the Midwest"), I'd begun feeling pretty upset. I couldn't believe that my beloved home state of Minnesota could be home to so much gambling.

Now, as we sat up in the wee hours of the morning talking about all this, I began to realize that I'd become very convinced that laws of chance existed, laws that could make some people rich and throw others into ruin. I saw that if I believed chance and luck had power over other people's lives, I'd also inadvertently accepted that I, too, could be affected by such laws.

When it comes to injury, the laws of chance play a starring role. In other words, maybe I'd ski the days away without a problem. But if I was unlucky, I might just have an accident.

I'd never consciously accepted such a thing to be true, but my midnight prayer conversation with my mom awakened me to a fact that I needed to accept: that God was omnipotent Principle, the sole lawmaker, and the only power that had control over my life. Even more important, I needed to correct my mistaken view that God created anyone susceptible to laws of chance. Either God's laws were good and unchanging and ever active, or they weren't. I knew absolutely that the former was true. I couldn't be subject to luck—good or bad—any more than anyone else could.

As I accepted God's supremacy and the powerlessness of chance, I became calm and was able to fall back asleep. And when I woke up the next morning, I was ready to hit the slopes for a final morning of skiing.

My knee never bothered me again. My trust in God's absolutely good law, rather than in the variable laws of luck, healed me of the physical effects of that skiing accident. Even better, it left me feeling certain that not one of God's children could ever suffer from, or benefit from, chance. As I discovered that spring break, the only law anyone is subject to is God's, and His is a law of good.

Jenny Sawyer
Brighton, Massachusetts

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