Heal the sick, cleanse the lepers, raise the dead, cast out demons. Freely you have received, freely give. (Matthew 10:8)
My only experience in raising the dead happened in the Bible Belt city of Louisville, Kentucky. There Honey and I rented a home with a big backyard.
As happens from time to time, our common sense went bye-bye and we purchased two dogs, a Golden Lab named Casey and a liver and white spotted English Pointer named Kelly. Both were females and about fifteen months old.
The two dogs loved each other. They dug holes in the yard, chewed on phone cables, barked at squirrels, raced around with tennis balls in their mouths, but especially, they loved to puppy fight. You would have thought that Casey who weighed seventy-five pounds would easily have defeated the forty pound light-weight, Kelly, but this was not the case. Kelly was by far more assertive than Casey.
One day, Carol and I had a lunchtime appointment. Before leaving, I opened the dog run and let the dogs out into the backyard. They took off running.
When we returned, a loud wailing noise was coming out of our backyard. We jumped out of the pickup truck and raced to the backyard. There we saw the two dogs tangled up together. Somehow Casey’s jaw had caught under Kelly’s dog collar; and in the struggle to get free, Kelly had flipped over and was being strangled by her own dog collar. Her eyes were glazed over and her breathing was faint.
I tried to release the collar, but it was too tight. Honey ran to the house for a pair of scissors. She was only gone a couple of minutes, but by the time she returned and cut the collar, Kelly died. No Breathing. Her eyes starring off into space. She was a dead puppy.
Honey and I were kneeling on the ground by Kelly, praying in tongues with our hands touching her.
I began crying out to my heavenly Father. “Father, You can’t let my dog die. You gave her to me. You have to raise her up. You can’t let her die. It’s not right! Father, I’m asking You to raise her up from the dead.” Over and over, I prayed in this fashion with tears flowing down my face for five or six minutes.
Then, Kelly opened her eyes. She wobbled to her feet and walked over to Casey who was watching from the side of the house. They touched noses as if to say, “That was a close one, but everything is okay now.”
Honey and I remained on our knees, praising Father for His lovingkindness.
Later, Honey asked me, “How long would you have continued praying for Kelly?”
“Until Father raised her up from the dead,” I said.
Was it my great faith that brought about this miracle? No, not really. My words were not filled with faith, instead they were pleas for help.
So, why did Father heal Kelly? I tugged on His heart like a four year old child begging a parent for an ice cream cone on a hot summer day. And I knew He would eventually give in and do it because He is head over heels in love with me. Father is a good Daddy.