What an adventure!

My friend/sister Kira couldn't smell. I know this because I made the mistake more than once of asking her if I smell okay (confession: I have a paranoia of smelling bad. I don't want to be THAT KID. You know who I'm talking about.). Anyways, Kira posted this the other day on facebook, and as she is a phenomenal writer I am just going to repost it. No one can tell this story better. And what makes this story great is that it's TRUE.

The Kingdom of Heaven belongs to such as these

by Kira

It was stink bombs and passed gas that revealed it. When the middle school halls emptied and I was left wondering why, it became clear that I couldn’t smell. Or rather, that my brain has difficulty perceiving smell. Years later, when my doctor was concerned that the anosmia might be a sign of a brain tumor, a CT scan revealed that there were no tumors and my nose was fine, but probably a childhood bump to the head or a high fever had damaged the olfactory bulb. The subsequent tests indicated that there was a small percentage of smell ability, but not enough to be significant, which made sense of the strange fact that I could occasionally smell potent things like gasoline. The doctor suggested I take shots of a certain steroid if an occasion like a trip to Italy arose as they had had some success with temporary smell returning, but that there was no cure and that I would probably have limited taste and also struggle with remembering since the limbic system as a whole was compromised.

Being limited in smell hasn’t been all bad as far as disabilities go. I have been spared skunks and trash cans and all manner of foul odors, but there have been near misses and losses too. There was the time I nearly offed myself closing the door to our small bathroom and spraying every surface with bleach cleaners. And my babies have incurred unnecessary diaper rash because I forgot to check. I don’t get the nostalgia from smelling baked goods and I’ve never enjoyed that “new baby” smell that all mother’s rave over. Once in a while, like during my last pregnancy, a smell will wash over me out of nowhere, but it has almost always been an overwhelming experience and distasteful to my senses—something I wanted very badly to escape from and was grateful to have depart quickly.

But tonight this all changed.

This evening Amelie, Cosette and I made banana bread with the collection of overripe bananas I’d stored in the freezer. While it baked, I sat out on the porch and worked on my Community Bible Study on John. Coestte ran around the yard, but Amelie asked if she could help me. In my usual mode of task-orientation, I was actually a little bugged. The night air was so perfect, the porch chair nice for just one, and the Pharisee in me was so thrilled at the chance to make progress on this week’s long study. The mother in me won and I read aloud from John chapter 9 while she perched next to me with her own pen and spiral notebook. When we finished the section, we both answered the study question. “What impressed you most…” Amelie wrote,

“Do you know what impressed me [?] that Jesus heled [healed] the blind with mud and water. It is amazing how he can do those cind mericals [kind of miracles]. To me it seems cool to be able to do those thing[s] like Jesus. But how does he do them?”

Back inside, the bread was nearly done. We headed in and Amelie commented, “I wish you could smell the bread, Mom. If Jesus were here, He could put mud on your nose!” I laughed. Absently, I told her that Jesus said we would do miracles even greater than him by his empowerment. Amelie is 8. Her brain fires faster than any lightning I’ve witnessed. Instantly, with stars in her eyes, she asked, “Can I do it, Mom?”

Oh, the shock of a moment of truth. I had walked right into it, and I could see there was no way back out. I realized with terrible clarity that I wanted to protect God from looking like a fool in front of my children. How would they deal with the disappointment I was sure was coming full speed ahead. Coinciding fear and doubt and awe made mincemeat of my brain and I answered, “Yes,” before I really knew myself. Amelie ran back outside, and after I pulled the bread from the oven, I found she and Cosette making mud of the pumpkin planter boxes. We went to the kitchen where Amelie smeared my nose and there, on the linoleum, my two daughters prayed very simple prayers to God. “We believe You can do it, Jesus,” they each told Him, and their faith called out to my faith. Like the possessed boy’s father, in the quiet of my heart I confessed my own belief and asked Him to “overcome my unbelief” (Mark 9:24). Little hands were pushing me to the kitchen sink, our own little Pool of Siloam, where I washed the potting soil from my nose and turned to their questioning. A scented candle was brought for the test. A birthday gift for my house more than me since I have never enjoyed the fragrance of a candle, but there it was, a sweet smell like the taste of orange, and sure enough, the label read, “Citrus.” I was smelling citrus and Cosette was screaming with delight. Never before has Amelie cried for anything but sorrow and pain, but tears of joy were literally coursing down her face and she was saying, “Thank you, Jesus!” She was a ball of true delight, running from the kitchen to the porch as if looking for someone to whom she could bear witness, and when she returned, she asked if we could tell, “Everyone!” She called our dearest friends and family, and to each, she told of God’s goodness with audible adoration, praise, joy and wonder.

Yes, friends, I was healed. I can smell. And it pains me to confess that even still I am afraid and doubtful. Will it last? Is it all psychosomatic? Am I setting up my children to be persecutes or at least ostracized? Is it real? Amelie is not wrestling tonight. Before bed, I asked if she would write in her journal about this miracle of God. “Oh, I already did!” she exclaimed. She brought it to me, and read, “Today my mom started to smell just becase I beleved [because I believed] and prayed! And it was not just the mud that helped. It was faith. Jesus to[o].”

Others will struggle like me. I am fairly certain I will be misunderstood by some who think I am pulling some sort of Tooth Fairy shtick—trying to encourage belief with false pretences. I am sure others will ask lots of the questioning sort of questions that have more ridicule than honest inquiry to them. I already sense that much like my mud-speckled friend of old, I will be as befuddled as I am tonight. Like him (John 9:25), I imagine I will answer, “I don’t know. One thing I do know. I was Anosmic but now I smell!” I smell geraniums. I smell pizza sauce and balloon, and because of the faith of my beautiful children, tonight I smell banana bread.