List Price: $ 15.99
Save 25 % off List Price
Surprised by Healing : One of the Greatest Miracles of the 20th Century. - Sid Roth
In 1975 Delores Winder attended a conference on the Holy Spirit in Dallas, Texas, where Kathryn Kuhlman was speaking. Never having seen a miraculous healing take place and believing that supernatural healing ended with the apostles, Delores was not praying for a physical miracle that night, although she was suffering a grave illness.
However, because God "is able to do exceeding abundantly above all that we ask or think," Delores was transformed from hopelessness to wholeness, set free from a fatal disease. That night Dolores felt the very presence of the living God surrounding her.
God is no respecter of persons, and what He did for Delores, He will do for you. God is with you always-there is nothing impossible with Him!
There are no customer reviews available at this time. Would you like to write a review?
Destiny Image, Inc.
March 10, 2010
Number of Print Pages*
Adobe DRM EPUB
* Number of eBook pages may differ. Click here for more information.
Excerpt from Surprised by Healing by Delores Winder
The Shadow of Death
Even though I walkthrough the valley of the shadow of death,I will fear no evil,for You are with me...(Psalm 23:4).
The doctors said I was going to die. I had been sick for 19/ years and every minute of it showed on my body. I had stalled the Judgment Day for nearly two decades, but my time was running out. After all those years of sickness and pain, I had begun to hope that all my illness would do was kill me. Dying would be easy, enduring more pain was unthinkable.
For months death had stalked me, casting its shadow over my emaciated body. A lot of people truly believe they will live forever, but I had to accept the fact that forever was something I no longer could offer anyone.
My life during those 19/ years had been a preview of hell. Thank God I was a Christian and knew I was going to Heaven where I would finally be free of the body cast and neck brace that had burdened me; free of hospitals, surgeries, pain, and medication; and free of all torment. Free to walk and run again.
"Maybe, God, I'll get the feeling back in my legs! And in my arms and body!" I often dreamed out loud. "Oh, it would be so nice to feel someone's arms around me again." I thought, "Perhaps the arms of Jesus." I wondered what it would be like to go somewhere alone again. You forget freedom after 19/ years of being an invalid.
My husband Bill and our teenage son Chris were kind to me and helpful. Our married son Doug, his wife Ann, and our three grandchildren lived nearby and helped me so much. They were the epitome of kindness and love, but how wonderful it would have been to do something by myself again. The confinement of my illness had been difficult for me because I had been so fiercely independent and active.,/p>
An Incurable Ailment
My doctors called my illness, which had begun in 1956, pseudoarthrosis and told me that there was no known cure or any way to stop its progression. The only option was to live and die with it. They explained that a healthy person's bloodstream contains everything necessary to keep the bones strong; but in my case, my bones did not absorb what they needed from my bloodstream. As a result, I developed advanced osteoporosis, causing my bones to become old and brittle long before their time.
I was hospitalized from January through April of 1957, when the doctors discovered that the osteoporosis was causing the bones in my back to deteriorate. During my hospital stay, surgeons performed the first of my spinal fusions, an operation that was intended to hold my crumbling vertebrae in place. The doctors used bone for the fusion taken from the larger of the two bones in my leg. I was put in a back brace to support my spine and told that I would never be without it again.
Yet, even the brace didn't provide enough support, and I had to walk bent over to keep my spine from getting caught on some bone spurs that had developed at the spinal fusion sites. If I were not careful, these spurs would pull down more of the vertebrae in my already weakened back.
Bill built me a special steel brace for support. It worked for a while, but had to be worn outside my clothing. The steel supports stuck out at the sides, and as I walked around the house, Bill, Chris, and our friend John Andrews would hang dishtowels on the end of my brace, to ease the tension. We would all laugh about it.
Someone once asked one of my friends, "How could you be so cruel as to joke about Delores's illness?"
"That's the only way we could live with it," the friend replied. Bill often joked about feeding me Elmer's Glue in order to hold me together. Bill and Chris would ask, "How much Elmer's Glue do you think it would take to hold Mama together?" My dear, wonderful Bill, who stood faithfully with me during all those painful years, once said, "We have to joke about it to keep from crying."
Surgery and More Surgery
After the spinal fusion, our family had to make quite a lot of adjustments. I couldn't drive our car because the doctor told me that even pushing down on the brake pedal could send my back into shock and break more vertebrae. But at this early point in my illness, I could still take part in the care of my family.
I managed fairly well for two-and-a-half years, until the first fusion broke. The doctors then repeated the fusion using a graft from the other leg and put me in a body cast from under my arms down to my legs. During the next 15 years, the doctors would perform two additional spinal fusions.
Because none of the three previous fusions lasted, the doctors decided to perform the fourth one through the front. This frontal fusion was an attempt to bond my crumbling bone to the front of the vertebrae. The surgery was just unbelievable. Once the incision was made, the surgeons had to remove all the vital organs in the area in order to insert the bone. After fusing the bone, they put all my organs back in and closed the incision. A nurse at the hospital later told me that the doctor ordered her to check me every hour after the surgery stating that, "He didn't want me lying there dead in a hospital bed."
The frontal fusion held for only a short time and then my condition grew rapidly worse. The pain became unbearable. The doctors' next step was to perform a percutaneous cordotomy, a procedure that would control the pain, but was usually reserved for terminal patients.
Prior to the cordotomy, the doctors offered me a clear explanation of what the operation meant. They told me that percutaneous cordotomy literally means burning out the nerve centers in the spinal column and that, once destroyed, the nerve centers could not be restored again. This procedure would have permanent consequences.
Although the doctors tried not to be blunt about it, the unmistakable implication was that the cordotomy was being performed only because there was no hope of curing my disease; I was dying. The cordotomy would give me some relief during the final stages of my illness.
The surgeons also carefully explained that the procedure would involve burning at least six spinal cord segments above the origin of the pain. In order to achieve complete pain relief, the entire lateral spinothalamic tract would have to be burned through. If it were not, the pain would remain.
They did not open me up surgically, but simply inserted a needle through my skin, and then into the spinal cord using x-ray to guide them. The doctors then literally burned the nerve centers, destroying them completely. The procedure was a great success because the pain was gone, but afterwards I had no feeling from the neck level down on my right side. As a result, I couldn't lift my feet off the floor. However, I was able to walk a little by shuffling my legs.
Over the next year and a half, the pain increased so much on the left side of my body that the doctors decided to perform another cordotomy. Once again, they explained to me that once the nerve centers from the left side of my body were destroyed the procedure would be irreversible and nerve function could never be restored.
They again went back into the spinal column, burning out all the nerve centers on my left side, as far up the spine as they could--about three inches above my waist. They couldn't go higher because my heart and lungs were in such bad condition from wearing the body cast all those years and also because my body was weak from inactivity. The second cordotomy was also a great success; I felt no pain on the left side in the areas that were deadened. However, I still had pain in other parts of my body.
When you try to walk with bilateral cordotomies affecting both legs, you have to watch your feet very carefully. Your brain has to tell your legs to move since you have no feeling in your feet. You can't lift your feet, but you can shuffle them along. The doctors didn't even know that a person with two cordotomies could shuffle until they saw me do it.
The surgeon told me, "Delores, you will probably be in a wheelchair from now on, because we've never known a person with two cordotomies who ever walked again." The day after the second cordotomy, I told my doctors, "I want up; I'm going to walk." And I "walked" in my shuffling fashion.
Talk about the chains that satan puts around you--my whole body had the signature of satan written all over it. And when he catches you in a trap, he isn't about to let you go.
An Ailing Spirit
Along with all my physical problems, I also had a spiritual problem of which I was aware. Oh, I knew Jesus, but He was in Heaven. And I knew about satan, but I thought he was in hell. I read my Bible and would say that I believed it to be the infallible Word of God. I knew it was the truth. Yet because of my church upbringing, I put healing and deliverance back in the apostolic age. I believed these things were "not for today." The only time I ever heard the term Holy Spirit was when we recited the Apostles' Creed at church--and it had been a long time since I had been able to go to church.
Although I knew that I was a Christian and was going to Heaven, I always seemed to be looking for something more. Before my illness began, my husband Bill and I worked with the young people in our Methodist church. It was so frustrating when those kids would come to me with problems for which there seemed to be no answers. We just encouraged them to try to be good, to attend church and do their best. We would tell them, "We'll pray for you," but never said, "We'll pray with you." One day I cried out, "Dear God, there must be more to give young people than this!" Our minister didn't have any answers either. While he was visiting me one day, I asked, "What else is there?" "What do you mean, 'What else is there?'" he asked.
"Where did the excitement of being a Christian go?" I asked.
"Delores, you're always hunting for something you don't have," he replied.
It troubled me when I read the Bible and saw that the New Testament Christians were excited, but here we were doing our Christian "chores" and nothing ever happened. Day after day I read the Bible and would think, "Wouldn't it have been nice to have lived when Jesus walked here on the earth? So many things happened. Was it only for those three short years of His ministry and for the disciples and apostles who had walked with Him? When He was here there were miracles. Why?"
I felt as though I had a giant jigsaw puzzle of Christianity with a great big piece missing and no one--not even my minister--could tell me what the missing piece was.
A Welcomed Death Sentence
In the spring of 1975, I went back into the hospital. It had become a constant battle just to keep my body functioning. One of my kidneys had closed and the other carried a constant infection. My bowels had not moved in several weeks and my stomach had troubled me from the time I first entered the body cast 15 years earlier. Also, my esophagus had ruptured.
My doctors kept me doped up all the time in an attempt to kill the increasing pain, but it wasn't working very well. When the pain became unbearable, they gave me stronger painkillers. I was living on pills to tranquilize me, pills for my ruptured esophagus, pills for my stomach, pills for my kidneys, pills for my heart, pills for low blood pressure, and pills to sleep. My whole world seemed to revolve around those little bottles of pills.
All I could eat was dry toast, a cup of tea, a small piece of broiled chicken, and instant chicken noodle soup from a package. No wonder my invalid body weight dropped to 73 pounds. The doctors asked me to go into the hospital for some additional tests to determine if there was anything further that could be done for me medically.
Dr. I.L. Van Zandt, who had treated me for nine years, was a very compassionate man. We became close friends. He had gone through a lot of trauma in his own life and often shared his feelings with me. He found me to be a good listener. Why not? There wasn't much else for me to do. But Van and the other doctors had lost hope; they knew I was dying and that it was just a matter of time.
My doctors had kind hearts. Before they finally gave up hope, they decided to call in another neurosurgeon to see if there was anything further that could be done for me. The neurosurgeon examined me thoroughly and told Van it was time for my body to die.
It was Van's unhappy duty to tell me the results of the final tests the neurosurgeon had conducted. He had told Van that a person's body can only tolerate so much disease, illness, and pain. Van really didn't have to tell me the results of the tests. A person knows when her body is dying. I actually looked forward to it.
Van came into my room, walked over to the bed, and said, "Delores, I'm sorry. There's nothing else that can be done." I looked up at that kind doctor and tried to smile. "Your body has just taken all it can endure--it's time to die," he said, with a distraught, sad expression on his face.
"Don't, Van. Don't be sorry," I told him. "I'm going to be out of this hell soon and I'll be free. It's official and I'm glad."
"Delores, I would do anything in the world to make you well and I can't do a thing," he said. Then, after a long pause, he added, "Even the tissues in your back are shredding."
He explained that some of the muscles in my back had dropped and caused my bowels to cease functioning. My body was preparing for death. Then he left. During the next few days I tried to adjust to the idea of dying soon.
The second week in July, after Chris's 14th birthday, we carefully planned my funeral. I tagged my jewelry and the little things I wanted to leave for my loved ones. About all that was left for me to do was wait.
Except for one little hitch.