I'VE ALWAYS LED an active life. I love to downhill and crosscountry ski in the winter, and sail and kayak in summer. Also, being a dad to three lively children has given me more than enough exercise at home.

So it was with some surprise—and bitter dismay—that after dinner one evening a couple of months ago, I was overcome by acute pain in my lower abdomen. It was so severe that I found myself writhing on the floor. I was alone at home at the time and very frightened.

I managed to crawl to the phone, but was in such agony that, for a moment, I wondered which number to call—emergency 911 or the number of a Christian Science practitioner to whom I had often turned for healing through prayer.

Without much debate, I chose the practitioner, called him, and breathlessly unloaded my tale of torment. "Where's God in all this?" I asked. "I can't feel His presence at all. All I can feel is pain!"

The practitioner listened to me for a few moments. Then he calmly and firmly assured me that despite the evidence in front of me, God was certainly present. God was the only power; therefore, I was safe.

He suggested we pray individually but with the common goal of acknowledging these facts, and he asked me to call him again in 15 minutes. Then he added with assurance and love, "And you can call me every 15 minutes after that for as long as you feel you need to."

Before we ended the call, I explained that it was not only the pain that was troubling me but acute fear—fear of something I'd never experienced before, fear of being alone in such a crisis, fear as to whether I could handle the situation.

We talked about a passage in Science and Health in which Sentinel founder, Mary Baker Eddy, wrote about the importance of clinging to God when the "illusion" of sickness "tempts" you. She continued: "Allow nothing but His likeness to abide in your thought. Let neither fear nor doubt overshadow your clear sense and calm trust, that the recognition of life harmonious—as Life eternally is—can destroy any painful sense of, or belief in, that which Life is not" (p. 495).

I was very familiar with this passage, but it was particularly helpful to be reminded of it at that moment. It brought my attention back to an important lesson I had learned before in praying for healing: that despite appearances, I was dealing primarily with my own thought, not physical conditions.

Fifteen minutes later, I called the practitioner again, and we agreed that nothing was more urgent than to reduce the fear and get closer to God. He pointed out how important those words tempts and illusion were. Not for one moment should I be tempted to believe God had made me so I could be trapped in a human body that was racked with pain. That was the illusion. The truth was that I was a child of God and could safely trust Him to reveal the consistently harmonious life with which He blesses everyone. After several more calls to the practitioner that evening, I was able to sleep for a few hours.

The next day the pain was still present but a little less severe. I stayed home from work and asked my sister to come over and read hymns to me, which she was happy to do. I was especially comforted by this message in one of them:

In the calm that those ideas brought to me, I was able to pray more clearly for myself. I began to realize how fear had gone to work on me. At one point the fear seemed to be strong enough to shut out everything else. It was like a voice insisting menacingly, "I can put you under so much pain that everything else will be shut out; even your belief in God's presence will be wiped out of your consciousness." That was not a place where I could feel any love at all, and not a place I wanted to be.

As comforting as these thoughts were, later that night I was again in extreme pain. Making yet another call to the practitioner I told him that as much as I loved God, I just wasn't sure what to do. Did it make sense at that point to go to the emergency room at a hospital?

The practitioner's response was one I will never forget: "Jon, you can go wherever you feel you will be loved." And there it was, the beautiful, clear reminder that I was loved by God. In order to feel this love, I didn't have to go anywhere. God was right there with me, loving me every moment. I wasn't home alone. I was at home with God, and He with me. I could trust Him implicitly—start listening attentively to what He was saying about me and my real identity as one of His sons.

At that point I was able to sit in a position that was slightly more comfortable and decided I would just listen to God. After communing with Him in this way for an hour, I realized the pain wasn't dictating to me. A feeling of His love was displacing the pain. I fell asleep. By the end of the next day I was free of all pain. The following week I was getting in one more kayak trip before the season ended and taking the kids to an orchard at the top of a high ridge for apple picking.

God's love for each of us is very real. This love displaces fear, protects us and heals us, in every circumstance.