And He Healed Them All: Second Edition

by Jeffrey McClain Jones

  Jillian insisted I stay in the car and not walk her to the door. This created a dilemma for me, torn between old-fashioned chivalry and modern egalitarianism, but also feeling a bit put off by her. I don’t know if she meant it that way, but I worried that she was keeping me at a distance.

  Chapter Five

  What’s Going On Here?

  The following Monday afternoon, I walked into Walter’s room to find Jillian standing next to his bed, tugging at a pencil in his hand. This tug-of-war stopped me in my tracks. “Walter, did you steal Jillian’s pencil?”

  Jillian let go of the pencil. They both smiled at me like mischievous children.

  Their goofy grins intrigued me. But I kept up the joke. “If not, then Jillian, you should know better than to steal pencils from defenseless old people.”

  Jillian stood up straight and gave Walter a sideways glance. She laughed.

  Walter protested. “Who’s defenseless?” He switched the pencil to his left hand and brandished it like a sword.

  I looked at Jillian for a more serious response.

  Still smiling, she said, “Walter seems to be recovering some motor skills he lost as a result of the stroke.” She sounded every bit the physician but as giddy as doctor who’d been drinking on the job.

  I guess I wore a puzzled look, both from trying to absorb her explanation and her uninhibited laughter, because when she turned her full attention to me, she sobered.

  “James, Walter is being healed as he dreams of healing.”

  I stared into her clear, nimble eyes. My thoughts tripped over her words, only to stagger when I looked into her open and inviting face, so close to mine.

  Walter intervened. “James, let me tell you about another dream. Maybe it will do as much for you as they’ve been doing for me.”

  A fifth dream? I shook my head as the news siphoned my pool of untamed thoughts into a simple desire to hear the next installment.

  “Tell me.”

  Jillian took my hand and led me to one of the chairs next to Walter’s bed. We both sat down.

  Walter slowly laid his pencil on the table next to his bed.

  “When this next dream began, my attention was on a man standing in the crowd, watching. I say watching, because he was letting people go before him to get to the teacher, not pressing forward like everyone else. He seemed to be there simply to observe, yet genuinely curious and apparently much impressed by what the teacher was doing. As I watched, he wiped a tear from his eye at the healing of a feeble old woman receiving sight in an eye that had been blind for a generation. As she raised her hands to praise God, the watcher started to do the same and then pulled his arms back.

  “‘Joseph, come here.’ The teacher broke into the watching man’s anonymity.

  “For a moment, the observer stared wide-eyed, evidently surprised by the teacher’s request. The teacher motioned for him to come. Joseph pushed past several people and approached the teacher.

  “‘Joseph, what do you see?’ He waved his hand toward those who’d received healing and were dancing and praising God.

  “‘Teacher, I see the hand of God at work. I see a day that my ancestors dreamed of for centuries.’ His voice cracked and his eyes welled with tears.

  “‘You believe, then?’

  “‘Yes, Lord, I do believe.’ Joseph held his chin high as he declared his heart. He seemed to stand taller as he put his faith into words.

  “The teacher nodded. ‘Good. Go back to your home country for now. In two years, come back to Jerusalem, where you will find something new, and you will take part in what God is doing in the world.’

  “Joseph furrowed his brow, as though not understanding what the teacher was talking about. Regardless, he bowed slightly to the teacher and stepped back.

  “The teacher stopped him. ‘What about your stomach?’

  “Joseph raised his eyebrows and brought his hand to his stomach. I thought I saw him wince.

  “The teacher touched Joseph on his midsection before he could reply. After a one-second pause, Joseph doubled over as if in severe pain. The teacher helped him slowly collapse to the ground.

  “He said, ‘Your stomach pain will be healed, but you will have a fire in your belly that will not go away. Pay attention to that fire, Joseph, and you will know what to do.’ The teacher left Joseph sitting on the ground, holding his stomach like a woman in labor.

  “As the teacher moved back to where he had stood before, several boys moved quickly through the crowd. People parted to let them through. Three boys were carrying a fourth, who was bleeding from a wound near his collarbone. The wound was clumsily wrapped, and the cloths were soaked red.

  “The teacher met them, kneeling as the boys lowered their friend to the ground. He spoke to the others in a soft voice as he put his hands on the wounded boy’s chest. ‘What happened to him?’

  “The tallest of the three looked at the other two. ‘It was the Romans. They shot him with an arrow.’

  “‘Why did they do that?’

  “Again the spokesman used his eyes to check with his two companions. ‘We were throwing rocks at them.’

  “When he said this, the teacher removed his hand from their friend’s chest. People near enough to hear what was going on murmured things like, ‘What did you expect?’ and ‘Serves them right.’

  “The three friends exchanged looks out of the corners of their eyes, while keeping their heads down. They certainly heard the murmuring around them, even if it had not occurred to them that their crime, or at least their foolishness, disqualified their friend from the teacher’s help. But when they turned back to the wounded boy, they found his eyes wide open. He said, ‘How did I get here?’

  “The three helpers frantically assisted the wounded boy when he tried to stand, and the adults crowding around vented their astonishment that, in spite of the blood-stained shirt, the boy appeared perfectly healthy. The teacher smiled at the four boys as they embraced one another, searched for the missing wound, and breathed relieved sighs interspersed with jokes and teasing. They quieted when they caught the teacher eyeing them, one brow cocked, and his arms crossed over his chest.

  “‘What will you do when the Romans pass your way the next time?’ he said.

  “The three boys who had carried their wounded friend exchanged glances again while clearly frozen into guilty stiffness. But the wounded boy, whose hand was still clasped to his formerly pierced chest, smirked. ‘Throw bigger rocks?’

  “The teacher laughed and shook his head as the other three pushed and goaded their resurrected friend. The teacher tousled the hair of the boy he had healed. ‘Live long, my boys. Act wisely, and survive to see your grandchildren.’

  “They thanked him and bowed. As they moved to leave, the teacher touched the arm of the boy who had been shot. The teacher was holding out his hand. The boy reached up. The head of a Roman arrow dropped into his hand, still coated with blood. His smile disappeared and he looked up at the teacher with wide eyes, as if reality had landed in his hand and penetrated his heart.

  “As the four boys pushed back through the crowd, the teacher asked Phillip for a rag to wipe the blood from his hands.

  “By this time, a caravan of people from Samaria had reached the front of the crowd, the whisperings of many disgruntled Jews revealed their origins. These people dressed similarly to the local Jews, but with a more Roman or Greek style to the way they wore their hair or their sandals and head coverings. As I’ve learned from my research, they looked like Jews in exile. But they were Samaritans, considered quite separate from the Jews, both by the Jews and themselves.

  “The first of the Samaritans to receive the teacher’s attention was a stout young man who said he was a blacksmith by trade. He unwound a bandage from his left hand, which had been severely burned and was nearly black with infection. The man gingerly held his hand out to the teacher. But the teacher’s response was not delicate; he grabbed that hand as in a handshake. The young man opened his mouth as if
to scream in pain. Instead, he looked down at his hand as the teacher held it. The burn, which had included the back of his hand, would have been visible had it still been there. The blacksmith’s open mouth stayed that way, his eyes wide. Just like so many others, he came for healing yet seemed shocked when the teacher actually did it. The teacher released his hand and the blacksmith stared at it as if he had never seen it before.

  “Turning to Matthew, the teacher asked for some water to drink. Instantly a dozen people produced goat skins or gourds containing water they had brought for their journey. The teacher took a water skin from a boy about twelve or thirteen years old. He thanked him, took a long drink, and then, instead of simply returning it to the boy, he poured some of the water over the boy’s head. The boy shrugged his shoulders tightly against the sudden shock of the water, and then he grabbed at his lower back. He shouted, ‘It’s healed! My back is healed.’ As he instinctively spun to look to his healed back numerous droplets of water flung in all directions from his wet hair, sparkling beads flying in the bright sunlight. As the droplets splashed on people nearby, each person, at least six, simultaneously began to shout and demonstrate how their bodies were no longer sick or in pain, moving arms and legs, necks and backs. In all directions little swirls of activity resulted from each revelation of healing.

  “The teacher turned his attention to a woman standing with a teenage boy. ‘My son cannot speak,’ she said, raising her voice against the boisterous celebration of the newest cluster of miracles.

  “The teacher addressed the boy. ‘Look at me. Open your mouth.’ He carefully touched the boy’s tongue and removed his finger quickly.

  “The boy’s mouth clamped shut; then he opened his mouth and made some sounds. He didn’t seem to be trying to form words; rather, he seemed thoroughly fascinated with his new ability to make inarticulate noises. His mother thrilled with the significance of those meaningless sounds, laughing and rejoicing like a mother whose life had just been transformed

  “The teacher moved on, nodding in response to the mother’s thanks. He faced a man and woman with a little girl, whom, the man held. Without hesitation the teacher took the girl in his arms. The man, who I assumed was her father, released her without a word. The little girl, about four years old, stared wide-eyed at the teacher as they met face-to-face.

  “‘What do you want?’ he asked the girl.

  “‘I want to sleep all night without coughing. I’m very tired, and Mommy says I should sleep so I can get bigger.’ Her skeletal arms and legs, her bulging eyes ringed with shadows, and her ragged hair testified to her body’s inability to thrive.

  “‘Okay, then you will sleep all through the night, without any coughing, from now on.’

  “The girl raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips. ‘Are you coming to my house tonight?’

  “‘No, I won’t be coming to your house this night. Do you live far?’

  “Her father answered for her. ‘Only a few miles, sir.’

  “‘Well, then,’ the teacher said, looking to the little girl, ‘you will go home tonight, and as soon as you finish your bedtime prayers, you will know for sure right in here’—he pointed to her little chest—‘that you will have no more coughing problems.’

  “‘Is God going to take my coughing away?’

  “‘Yes, God is going to take it away.’ He handed her back to her father, both parents thanking him, as he stroked the girl’s back one more time before moving on.

  “Matthew and Philip propped up an old woman as the teacher approached. She had to turn her head sideways to look up at him out of the corner of her eye because of the harsh curve to her spine. Her hands lay folded on the top of a cane. All of her fingers showed the swollen twist of severe arthritis.

  “‘Do you want to be well, Mother?’ the teacher said.

  “‘Why, yes, of course.’ Her voice sounded like a rusty hinge.

  “The teacher rested his hand on her shoulder, and she jolted, as if being electrocuted. The jolt echoed up through the arms of the two men who had been supporting her. They managed to remain standing, holding the woman between them. Her head rolled from side to side and then settled in the middle, her eyes closed. Her cane lay at her feet now, her hands in front of her, shaking.

  “Again the teacher touched her, and again she trembled so that Matthew and Philip shook as well. She stood up straighter each time the teacher touched her. Her eyes still closed, she seemed to be concentrating on something. Her lips moved but no sound emerged.

  “A third time the teacher touched her. This time she raised her hands, falling over backward and making a sort of singing noise as she slowly settled toward the ground in the arms of Matthew and Philip. A woman who was with the teacher’s followers stepped through the men and covered the old woman with a blanket. She knelt next to her to guard her from the crush of sandaled feet.

  “The teacher touched the hands of a young woman who then grabbed her abdomen and smiled. He turned to his left and touched the forehead of a man with bandages on his ear and neck, and then back to his right he touched a woman propped up by a pair of men, one older and one younger. The speed of his movements translated into a frenzy of bandage removal, crutches tossed aside, and hands waving in worship and praise. Several people now danced near the teacher, including the little old woman he had healed of severe arthritis.

  “The music and movement of worship captured my attention. But a young woman standing perfectly still off to one side also caught my eye. She stared, oblivious to her surroundings except for one person. Her eyes never left the face of the teacher. She seemed completely smitten and her eyes followed his every movement. Then I noticed another person, a man with a face lined with years, mesmerized by the teacher. He held his knotty hands up, palm to palm, in front of his mouth, completely absent from the world around him except for the teacher. Then my view broadened and I saw that dozens of quiet worshippers stood all around. Like the singers and the dancers, they also worshipped the God who had sent the teacher. These silent, heartsick admirers had recognized the one truly loving person and could not tear their eyes from him.

  “Mary, one of his followers, directed the teacher’s attention to a couple holding a very tiny baby, sheltering the little one from the noise and bustle around them. Mary and the teacher approached the couple. My focus moved in close with them. The little girl barely breathed and made not a movement. Mary and the teacher completed the shelter for the little one as praise and dancing continued among the well and the sick alike. Only a few people near the couple and their little baby seemed to sense the drama unfolding in the miniature shelter of the four adults hovering over that small life.

  “The teacher cupped one hand entirely over the little face and head. When he popped his hand away, the baby gave a tiny little cough. She stretched all four limbs and opened her eyes. Her marble eyes rolled from mother to father and back, her lips curled into a smile. The teacher smiled too. Mary clasped her hands against her cheeks and watched the beautiful little life, admiring the baby’s every movement and expression. The teacher patted Mary’s back and stepped away to assess the activity around him.”

  Walter took a deep breath.

  “I think that’s enough, for now,” Walter said, implying that more of that dream remained to be told. He sat still, staring vaguely ahead as he usually did when he ran out of momentum for telling about a dream.

  I noticed the digital recorder on the night stand to his left.

  “Did you record this one?” I asked, nodding toward the little silver device.

  Slowly bobbing his head for a few seconds, Walter found his voice again.

  “Yes, I recorded it in the morning after I woke up yesterday.”

  “A Sunday dream,” I said.

  His smile turned impish, his eyes squinting so that the fan of lines deepened on both cheeks. “Yes, instead of going to church to meet with Jesus, he comes to me in my dreams.”

  I laughed just briefly, recalling Jillian’s assertion
that the healing had moved out of the dreams and into Walter’s body. I looked at her. “Walter’s improvement . . . is that what you were trying so hard to figure out Friday night?”

  Jillian smiled, raised one eyebrow slightly, and gently shook her head as she studied her own hands for a moment.

  “I guess I’m a little ashamed of myself,” she said, looking first at Walter and then back at me. “It was obvious at the restaurant, and especially after he told the dream, but I just couldn’t spread my imagination far enough to allow the truth inside.” She raised her face slightly and stared down her angular nose at me. “I guess I was having one of those ‘too good to be true’ moments.”

  I recognized the quote from our first dinner together. I also thought I recognized a look in her eyes that included me both in her confession and her revelation. But I decided to release that string, at least for the time, and turn my attention back to Walter. “How long have you known?”

  He squinted then raised both bushy gray eyebrows. “I wondered about the added sensation in my hands after the first dream. Then I found that I could move my fingers and toes slightly after the second one, and so on.”

  “So it’s been going on this whole time, but gradually?” I said.

  “Yes. And I’m with you two on this. I just couldn’t believe it was for real, even though I was experiencing it myself. That’s why I waited to be sure before I said anything.” He blinked and lowered his eyebrows. “But I’m realizing that wasn’t a good plan; ’cause if you want to doubt, you’ll just keep on doubting, even as the evidence piles up.”

  “‘Want to doubt?’” I said.

  He swept us both into his gaze and into his confession. “I think we have to admit that doubt is as much a choice as faith is.”

  I knew he was looking inward and including himself in this declaration, but that statement couldn’t have hit harder if it had been a hatchet aimed at my chest. I realized in that moment that I had not only chosen doubt, but I had nurtured it and multiplied it over the years until church lost its meaning, the Scriptures grew dusty, and my heart had room for only me.