And He Healed Them All: Second Edition

by Jeffrey McClain Jones

  “The boy hesitated, and just when I thought he was too shy to speak, he blurted, ‘It’s not me; it’s my father.’ The people around him exchanged looks and seemed to search for the boy’s father.

  “The teacher kept his eyes on the boy. ‘Where is your father?’

  “‘He’s at home in our village, over on the other side of the hill.’

  “Murmuring arose from the people close enough to hear. They seemed either amused or indignant at the thought of the boy asking the teacher to go elsewhere.

  “‘You see all of these people, of course.’ The teacher waved his hand to indicate the crowd. ‘How would you have me help your father if he’s not here?’ The teacher’s tone was not shaming or ridiculing, but instructive.

  “The boy seemed undeterred. ‘You could come there when you’re done here.’

  “‘Possibly.’ The teacher nodded. ‘But I’m traveling in the opposite direction when we’re done here.’

  “The boy twisted his lips, a thoughtful look crossing his face briefly. ‘Then maybe you could send one of your disciples.’

  “‘My friends are all needed here with me. Why didn’t someone bring your father here to me?’

  “‘He can’t walk, and he is too big for my mother and me to carry. No one in our village would agree to carry him this far. My father is a very big man.’ I heard an edge of pride in the boy’s voice, even though his father’s size was causing a problem just then.

  “The teacher patted the boy’s thin shoulder. I had the feeling that this was a sort of exercise. The teacher didn’t seem at all concerned that the alternatives the boy proposed proved impractical.

  “The people around them, however, grew restless. They edged in tighter, and scowled at the young boy. Murmurs and grumbling increased. Clearly, the teacher chose to ignore them and remained focused on the boy.

  “‘I think you will have to do it,’ the teacher said.

  “‘Me?’ The boy pointed to his chest.

  “‘What is your name?

  “‘Noah.’

  “‘Hold out your hands, Noah.’

  “The boy obeyed.

  “The teacher reached toward the boy’s slightly grubby hands. The moment their hands touched, Noah’s face opened in surprise, eyes wide, lips moving wordlessly, and his whole head tipped back as if pushed by a strong wind.

  “‘What do you feel?’ the teacher said.

  “‘It’s . . . it’s hot . . . it’s alive . . . it’s. . . I don’t know what it is.’

  “The teacher breathed a slight laugh and then put on a more serious face. ‘Take that to your father. Put your hands on him when you enter your house, and he will get well.’ The teacher stood.

  “Noah stared up at him wide-eyed then looked down at his hands, which appeared to be vibrating, not like one would do voluntarily or like palsy, but faster and more precise, as if those little hands were charged with electricity. Noah didn’t speak. He didn’t even say thank you. He just looked at the teacher and then back at his hands.

  “With his hands held up in front of him, like someone who couldn’t find a towel on which to wipe after washing, he tried to turn and make his way through the crowd. He seemed fearful to touch anyone standing in his way. I imagine he didn’t want to lose the power his hands held. The teacher must have seen the boy’s dilemma, for he motioned to one of his friends. “‘Andrew, help him get through.’

  “Obedient, Andrew stepped in front of the boy and pushed gently through, excusing himself and asking people to step aside so the boy could go through unhindered. Andrew and Noah disappeared into the crowd.

  “But I wanted to see what happened with him and his father. No sooner had I formed that thought than I was with the boy, watching him leave the edge of the crowd, as Andrew waved him on with a word of encouragement and a smile.

  “Still, Noah held up his hands, but he stopped looking at them, so he could see where he stepped along the rocky way. His pace was halting and uneven with his hands raised like that. People stared at him as he passed, but he seemed not to be distracted by their curious glances. He was on a mission, and, like any nine-year-old boy with a clear goal in mind, he seemed focused only on completing that mission.

  “Noah walked for nearly an hour with his hands held up, though I knew he must be growing weary of holding them that way. He held them out as if he were carrying a small log in front of him. His pace remained uneven but urgent.

  “He came upon a woman sitting by the side of the road, a small boy lying limp in her lap. The woman was crying. Her long hair strayed from her head covering, her eyelids were swollen and red, and her cheeks seemed sunken with weariness. Noah stopped to look at the little boy. Then he looked at his hands again. They were still vibrating.

  “Noah spoke softly, as if only to himself, ‘The teacher said to put my hands on my father and he will get well.’ He looked to the boy.

  “He took a step to continue on his way, but the woman stopped him. ‘What’s wrong with your hands?’ She sniffled. Even in her obvious grief, the boy’s strange behavior seemed to puzzle her.

  “‘Nothing’s wrong. I just saw the teacher who’s healing people on the mountain over there.’ He nodded back the way he had come. ‘He touched my hands so I could go home and heal my father. He is very sick and too big for me and my mother to carry.’

  “The woman sobbed. ‘I was taking my little Joshua to see the teacher. But he seems to get weaker and weaker as I carry him along. And I am so tired. I don’t think I can carry him another step. She pulled the end of her head covering over her face as she cried.

  “Noah stood still. A variety of emotions crossed his face. I wondered what was going through his mind.

  “‘You should go on home; your mother is probably wondering where you are,’ the woman said when she noticed Noah’s hesitation. ‘Do as the teacher told you.’

  “Noah seemed physically pained to leave her and her sick boy. He looked back up the road he’d been traveling. ‘Is your son going to die?’

  “The woman could only shake her head and cry.

  “Noah stepped over to the woman and her son. ‘When the teacher touched my hands, I felt something happen to them, and it’s still happening. I think when I touch my father he’ll get well, like the teacher said. But I don’t think the teacher would mind if I tried touching your little boy first to see if he could get well too.’

  “‘But what if the healing power leaves and you can’t heal your father?’ The mother sniffled and scowled.

  “Before she could stop him, Noah reached out one hand and put it on the smaller boy’s head. ‘He feels really hot.’ Noah’s eyes grew round. ‘He’s getting hotter!’ Noah quickly withdrew his hand from little Joshua’s head. He looked worried, as if he’d hurt rather than helped the boy.

  He jumped back, however, as the Joshua opened his eyes.

  “Both Noah and the mother gasped. Joshua struggled to sit up in his mother’s lap, nimble little arms and legs awakening in four directions at once. She let go of him to allow him to maneuver, and then she suddenly sat up straight. She shouted. ‘His skin is cool. His fever is gone!’ She hugged her squirming son, who was no longer flush from the fever.

  “Noah looked at his hands.

  “‘Have they stopped vibrating?’

  “‘I think so—Wait! The vibration is back, stronger!’

  “Noah and the woman laughed.

  “‘Oh, thank you, you’ve made us so happy,’ the mother said. ‘You have saved us both. Thank you so much!’

  “Noah turned to leave then stopped. ‘I guess it was really the teacher who healed you. He put the healing in my hands.’

  “The mother nodded and hugged her child again, watching as Noah turned and skipped toward his house.

  “The little village in which he lived lay very quiet when Noah arrived less than a half hour later. The rugged and narrow lanes of the hamlet stood empty. The late morning sun radiated off the whitewashed walls and revealed the mud and manu
re stains where the walls were not so white. But Noah looked only at his hands and at the path.

  “He passed a neighbor’s house just when the door swung open and a little girl, about six years old, stepped out carrying a bucket. ‘What’s the matter with your hands?’

  “Noah stopped. ‘I’m doing something very important, Rachel.’ A big boy’s hubris fueled a harsh edge to his voice. Then Noah seemed to repent. ‘Come and see.’

  “Rachel didn’t hesitate to follow Noah. In fact, she proved helpful when he stopped and looked hard at the door handle to his house. I could imagine that he questioned touching it with his vibrating hands. Rachel solved his conundrum by opening the door for him.

  “‘Thank you.’

  The two entered the house.

  ‘Mother?’

  “No answer.

  “The house was dark inside, the shutters closed on all sides. The sparsely furnished home contained the barest necessities. Noah walked past the table to his parent’s bed against the far wall. A partition shielded most of the bed from view. Noah moved around it. He motioned with his head that Rachel should join him.

  “The large man was still breathing, though his breath was raspy and uneven.

  “Noah stood there. He seemed undecided as to what to do. But it wasn’t long before he stepped to the edge of the bed, leaned over, and put his hand on his father’s forehead, perhaps the way he had seen his mother touch him to check for fever.

  “‘I think he has a high fever, just like the little boy on the way home,’ he said. Noah kept his hand in place for several seconds.

  “‘What are you doing?’ Rachel said.

  “‘Waiting for something more to happen.’

  “‘What?’

  “‘I’m not sure.’ He leaned closer to his father. ‘Do you think he’s breathing easier?’

  “Rachel shrugged.

  “Noah stepped back. He studied his hands; they no longer vibrated. He looked like he was about to cry.

  “‘Noah?’ His mother said as she stepped through the opened front door.

  “‘What are you doing?’ a girl about twelve said. I assumed she was his sister.

  “Before Noah could answer, his father stirred. All eyes flew toward him. He propped himself by one arm.

  “Noah’s mother screamed a short note of surprise. His sister dropped the firewood she was carrying on her feet, but made no complaint about the pain.

  “A huge smile stretched across Noah’s face.

  “‘Well, what’s going on here?’ His father seemed baffled by speechless gathering.

  “Rachel looked a bit perplexed. I figured she didn’t understand what had taken place. But as six-year-olds are wont to do, she told on Noah. ‘Noah was holding his hands funny, and then he told me to come and see, and he touched your head, and now you’re sitting up and speaking.’

  “Silence filled the small house as all eyes went to Noah. He quickly explained all that had happened with the teacher, his vibrating hands, the woman and her son on the side of the road, and then when he touched his father.

  “Still stunned, his mother took Noah’s hands in hers to examine them. Rachel pushed her way in to get a closer look, but Noah’s father just laughed, sat up, and pulled his wife into an embrace.

  “After the hugs and laughter dissipated, Noah’s father asked his wife to bring water for him to bathe. ‘I feel like I haven’t had a good bath in a long time.’

  “Noah’s mother threw open all of the shutters, bringing in fresh air and sunshine.

  “In a flash, I flew from Noah’s house to return to the teacher, leaving behind a bubbling family that was attracting the attention of their neighbors, particularly because Rachel ran around telling everyone she could find what she had seen and heard.

  “I hesitated in that miraculous flight to watch the woman whose boy Noah had touched by the road. She walked with her little boy next to her. He stepped spryly, asking one question after another, stopping now and then to look up to check his mother’s reaction.

  “Then back to the crowd on the mountain I flew.

  “The teacher had moved from where he was when I left. Between where he now stood and where I had left him, dozens of people lay scattered on the ground. At first, I thought these were people whom he had not yet touched, who lay where they had been placed by friends and family. Then I noticed that none of these people lay on mats or stretchers. In fact, the area where the people on stretchers and mats had been laid earlier that morning was filled with people standing, trying to push closer to the teacher.

  “As I arrived, a man with a very severely curved spine stood hunched in front of the teacher. The teacher placed a hand on the man’s chest and then slapped him on the back rather forcefully. With that, the man straightened, let out a yelp, and promptly fell backward, laughing and praising God. The teacher smiled at the man now on the ground at his feet, but he quickly moved on to the next person.

  “That’s when I noticed that most of the people I had seen lying on the ground were smiling, crying softly, or laughing. This was the aftermath, not the lineup, of those needing to be healed.”

  Walter laughed and stopped there. For a moment he sat staring into the dim restaurant, grinning euphorically, completely oblivious to Jillian and me. At that point I realized something I had unconsciously detected. Walter seemed to reside more persistently within the dreams as he narrated them. He seemed to struggle more to return from the journey on which those dreams led him.

  Finally, he turned and smiled at me self-consciously, glancing briefly at Jillian as well.

  Jillian teased him. “Welcome back.”

  I laughed at her plucky freedom with Walter. The boyish fascination he showed toward these dreams made him more approachable than the venerable old professor I knew before they began.

  A new waitress offered us refills on our coffee, though we had already paid our check and simply hadn’t bothered to leave yet.

  I sipped briefly from my cup as she poured Walter’s. I noticed that he had managed to get his right hand up onto the table. I was thinking that I hadn’t been paying attention to exactly what he could and couldn’t do after the stroke. But Walter pulled my attention back to the dreams.

  “Do you think Jesus would have really done that with the little boy, put healing in his hands?” he said.

  Jillian set her cup in the saucer. “Sure, why not?” She adjusted herself in the heavy wood and leather chair, sitting up straighter. “If you read the Gospels, you see the disciples were sent out to do the same sort of healing Jesus did. Given the short-comings those guys displayed throughout their time with Jesus, if God could use them in that way, then why not an innocent boy?”

  This was the first time I saw clearly that I was outnumbered. A small part of me complained that I had fallen in among these true believers, but I ignored that minority report and nodded at Jillian’s point. “Yeah, I remember some of the stories about those fishermen and tax collectors arguing over who was most important, or something.”

  Walter’s voice sounded apologetic. “I guess I’m looking for some affirmation that these dreams are as real as they seem to me.”

  Jillian smiled a sort of motherly approval.

  I responded. “I know they’re real to you. I’ve seen you getting inside the story. To me that’s proof of how real they are.”

  Walter’s grin stretched into a yawn and I looked at Jillian.

  “We’d better get you home,” she said, reaching for Walter’s scarf, which hung over the back of his wheelchair. With maternal tenderness Jillian wrapped the scarf around Walter’s neck as he attended to the way it covered the front of his shirt. Then we both helped him with his coat.

  We did all of that with a minimum of words, needing little to communicate among us. In that silence, I ran back over the dream and the longing it stirred in me. Longing for what, I couldn’t say, but then that’s the most tenacious kind of longing, isn’t it? The kind we can’t define or name.

  I
n spite of our late night, helping Walter into the car didn’t frustrate or scare any of us as much as the first time. Some of the improvement seemed to come from Walter discovering ways he could help, even with his weak arm and leg. I noticed Jillian studying Walter for a moment from the seat next to him before moving up front with me. When she returned to the front seat next to me I looked at her, hoping to figure out what she had been thinking, but she lowered her eyes and faced forward. She didn’t return my attention.

  I discovered what she was puzzling about when we arrived at the retirement home, and we assisted Walter back into his wheelchair.

  Holding his right hand, the one that had been affected by the stroke, Jillian questioned him as he settled into his little metal chariot. “You do have some use of your right side now, don’t you, Walter?”

  As I finished guiding his right foot into the silver stirrup, he answered. “Yes, some use.” He looked Jillian square in the eyes, craning his neck a bit to do so. He grinned a nearly symmetrical grin. For a moment I thought Jillian would say something, but she seemed to be almost holding her breath.

  This interaction struck me only in retrospect. At the time I was full-speed-ahead into perfecting my elder-care skills and getting all of us in out of the cold. The accumulating fog from our breath was threatening to become a major weather system.

  With Walter drowsily in the care of Roxanne, his favorite nurse, Jillian and I left him with warm thanks going both ways; Walter grateful for our taking him out, and both of us grateful for his telling of the latest dream.

  On the ride back to her house, Jillian’s breath came in smaller and smaller puffs of vapor as the car warmed up again.

  “Are you working tomorrow?” I said, though I felt a little like I was breaking into her ruminations.

  She snapped her head toward me, as if I had suddenly just arrived.

  “Tomorrow?” She seemed to be trying to fit that word into something that made sense at the moment. “Oh, yes, I am working tomorrow. It’s one of those Saturdays when I get together with families of the residents.”

  Not comfortable with interrupting someone’s meditations, I let the conversation fall, curious about what was preoccupying her, but too nervous to ask. I suppose that simply revealed my lack of security in our relationship, as well as my lack of comfort with the implications of the dreams.