“The round-faced boy looked down at his feet. ‘He did it!’ He shouted. Then he started to run in circles, around the teacher, around his mother, around his father, then around his brothers and his sisters. The sight of him speeding around drew laughs from all sides.
“Something more remarkable began to happen, however, as the newly motorized boy ran his careening course. Whenever he circled or brushed past a sick or injured child, that child shouted or jumped or began to wave a formerly broken arm or test a formerly deaf ear. The enthusiasm of that running celebration seemed to spread the healing out from the one little boy onto all of the children around him. After the first few were healed, some of them took up the race and began to follow the first little boy, running around and around in circles, weaving in and out among the people, with special attention to the children near them. Within less than two minutes, more than a dozen little children had begun running around and shouting ‘He did it!’ They coalesced into a high-speed caravan moving as one. Even with so many small boys and girls running wildly, they managed not to crash into one another, nor to trip the adults around them, and this beneficent mayhem continued to spread.
“The teacher just watched. I don’t know if I’ll ever see so much joy in one face as long as I live. He seemed to be no longer the master of the situation but the most enthusiastic fan instead. He clapped his hands and laughed as the winding race healed new little ones who then joined to run in and out of the crowd. And the healing began to sweep up adults as well. More men and women began to dance with the joy of their healing or that of a loved one.
“After a few minutes, the first boy collapsed to the ground, panting with his eyes closed. And another fell near him, and another landed near the woman with the large, mixed batch of children.
“I overheard someone standing near me say, ‘This is the widow that has devoted herself to caring for all of the orphans in this area.’
“The caregiver stood weeping joyfully with both hands held over her mouth. It was then that I guessed that the teacher had orchestrated this display for her. He had released the miraculous celebration to bless that woman who had turned from the sorrow of her loss to helping the smallest of the needy ones around her. The teacher smiled at her with tears in his eyes. She smiled back as she received the wonderful blessing he poured out for her. After all, he could have just healed the children one at a time, as he did with most of the people in the crowd that day. But this playful display of healing grace shone bright even in that day full of good news.
“The running children continued to drop out, exhausted, laughing, and panting. They exercised limbs and senses that had only cursed them before. Among them sat a girl, about six or seven, with light brown hair. She sat in the ragged grass on the sunbaked hill, examining her pink hands as if receiving sight for the first time.
“Once again I could see the teacher hesitate, as if he wanted to just stay there among those deliriously happy children, but he tore himself away from these inspiring little ones and again offered healing to all those who came to him.
“A middle-aged woman presented a heavily bandaged arm to him. She started to unwrap it to show him some festering sore that had stained that crude covering a rusty color, but he stopped her, clasped her face between his hands, and kissed her on the forehead. She made almost a barking sound in surprise at this manner of blessing, but then she stared at her bandaged arm. She rapidly unwound the bandage just in time to watch the last of the sore disappearing under new skin.
“A tall, thin woman moved to the teacher. Her red nose and watery, swollen eyes spoke of a severe cold or allergy. Her face bore lines that hinted that this condition was chronic, and her weary posture testified to surrendered hope.
“The teacher placed his hands gently on her cheeks. Her eyebrows arched suddenly and she said, ‘Oh,’ and smiled at the teacher. Her eyes no longer held a tired, glassy look, and her nose was no longer red and runny. She took a deep breath through her nose and chuckled broadly. ‘Thank you,’ she said with obvious relief.
“Two men carried a cot to a small opening in the crowd when the healed woman stepped away. On the cot lay a man who couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds, and most of that in bones that stood out prominently. I wondered how a man lived so long as to get to this wasted condition in a time when medical care was as often harmful as helpful.
“The teacher knelt by the cot and took the hand of the skeletal man. Their eyes locked, as if each had been waiting to meet the other, and now neither could be distracted from the experience of longing fulfilled. The strong hand of the teacher helped the man to sit up on his cot. It looked impossible. How could this frail man, who appeared beyond death’s door, sit up? Even with the help of the teacher, it appeared that this simple exertion spent all of his energy.
“The teacher steadied him and then instructed the stretcher bearers to place the cot on the ground. The man remained sitting, even when the teacher let go of his hand. I’m sure a strong wind would have knocked him over. His two friends stayed near, lest he should totter.
“The teacher turned to the next person waiting, who seemed to be feverish, for he was flushed, his eyes drooping and a slow, labored pace to his movements. The teacher touched the man’s forehead. His color turned cooler and his eyes cleared; he stood erect as the fever apparently abated.
“The teacher returned to the man on the cot. While my attention had been distracted, the sitting man had grown somewhat steadier, as if sitting was no longer such a challenge. He even seemed to be less gaunt. Again the teacher took his hand and ventured deep into his eyes. A smile enlivened the face of the man on the cot.
“The teacher turned briefly and healed a very small boy held in somebody’s arms, so that the little boy could hear when the teacher tested his ears. When the teacher finished, the little boy began to play at covering and uncovering his ears. Then the teacher turned back to the man on the cot one more time.
“This time the teacher helped him to stand. Reminding me of old documentaries of Holocaust survivors, the thin man still didn’t look well, his new posture emphasizing how far he had yet to climb to reach full health.
“The teacher held on a bit longer this time and then let go so that he could take a baby from its mother’s arms. He held the baby girl like an experienced mother would, kissing her on the forehead and handing her back to her mother, who grinned and thanked him when she saw that the girl’s drooping eyelid had been totally healed. The mother began to shout and wave one hand in the air as she danced away with her baby.
“One last time the teacher returned to the man who had arrived on the cot, but who now stood on his own. His face looked almost normal, still thin, but as healthy as I could have imagined, given what he looked like when he arrived. The teacher embraced him, holding him close, as if that body contact would accelerate the transfer of health from himself to the revived man. When the teacher released him, the man was smiling and standing quite well on his own. As hard as it was for me to believe, the man must have gained forty pounds in those few moments, and certainly whatever it was that had driven him into that wasted condition had passed away from his body. The teacher had healed both the cause and the deadly symptoms.
“After receiving the gratitude of the restored man and his friends, the teacher beckoned for another man to come out of the crowd to him. This man had a cloth wrapped around his head to cover one eye. ‘What happened?’
“‘I’m a stonemason. I was working in Jerusalem, cutting stone for Herod’s guard house, and a piece of stone flew into my eye. It hurt a lot at first but has gotten even worse, all red and swollen and sore.”
“‘Remove the bandage.’
“The man complied, going somewhat gingerly toward the end, and needing assistance from the woman standing with him, who might have been his wife. They finally uncovered the infected eye. It was quite inflamed as he had described, with the lid sealed shut. Clearly, the sunlight intensified his pain; he winced and held his ha
nd up to block the sun.
“The teacher stepped close to the man and blew a small puff of breath on the eye. The stonemason’s black eyebrows shot up, and I watched as the swelling vanished and the redness disappeared. After a half a minute of blinking against the sunlight, he was looking quite normal, a broad smile stretching across his face. He sighed as if finally able to end his vigil against the pain.
“The next man wore a bandage around his hand, but the injury he had suffered also registered on his downcast and deeply lined face. The teacher asked him about it. ‘Why so sad, my friend?’
“‘Teacher, I have been heartsick for many days now. I owed a debt to some men who came to collect when I didn’t pay on time. I’m a musician; I play stringed instruments in the temple and for celebrations in the city. To avenge my failure to pay my debt, they cut off my fingers.’ He fought tears. Awkwardly, with his other hand, he uncovered his mangled hand. Those who had maimed him had not been particularly efficient about their work. One finger still dangled grotesquely; it had turned black and stiff as it died there.
“People standing nearby recoiled or averted their eyes. The teacher stayed put, shaking his head. He gently cradled the musician’s hand in his own. Then he briefly licked his own index finger on the opposite hand and touched the dead finger.
“That finger responded by changing color and then twisting and snapping into place, the tenuous connection replaced by a normal joint. The musician stared with his mouth stuck halfway open. He began to quiver uncontrollably, as if in shock.
“The teacher spoke directly to the amputated fingers. ‘Grow.’ And they did. It took ten seconds for the newly sprouted fingers to grow out of the mangled joints that remained from his punishment. Like all of us, the musician stared wide-eyed. Still shaking, he began to flex his fingers and then made the motion of plucking strings. He laughed like a drunken man.
“‘Even better than before!’ And his laughter grew more hysterical. He staggered away without thanking the teacher.
“While most people walked away after being healed, many stayed to watch. Others rejoiced, dancing and singing in celebration of all that they had experienced for themselves, as well as what they’d witnessed being given to others. The widow and her band of orphans, for example, had stayed to worship and watch. Because there was still a press of people waiting to be healed, the watchers and worshippers had to move off to one side to avoid restricting access to the teacher. But no one watched without waves of emotion registering on their faces, like a large family watching their children open presents at Christmas, only far better.”
Walter clicked off the recorder and turned back to the snow falling outside before he faced me.
I knew by then that I needed him to comment on the dreams. For me, Walter was not just the receiving vessel; he was the chief interpreter.
“These scenes are very dramatic. People falling down, crying out, and such,” I said.
Walter nodded. “All I can say about that is it all seems so natural in the context. How would you respond to being instantly healed of a long-term illness?”
I laughed and shook my head slowly as I stared out the window. “That’s so far beyond my experience that I’m sure I have no idea.” I had been thinking about this emotional aspect of such dramatic healings, the impact of tangibly seeing one’s own body healed or that of someone close. But, to be honest, it was easier for me to treat the dreams as someone else’s story, muting its impact on me.
“I know my own dramatic improvement has meant more than just better mobility and table manners,” Walter said, winking at me. “The infusion of hope and joy is more than I’ve ever experienced.”
Though I knew that Walter was speaking honestly, I was struck by the contrast with his former reserve regarding matters of faith. I recalled a time when I was at his house when two young men knocked at the door. This was maybe fifteen years ago. I sat in a chair in the living room as Walter answered the door out of my line of sight. My first thought was that these were Jehovah’s Witnesses, but they introduced themselves as part of a new Baptist church in town. I listened from the other room, interested in his response to their sales pitch.
“We’d love to have you come and visit our church some time. Everyone is welcome,” the clear and bouncy voice of one young man said.
I could hear Walter shuffling uncomfortably on the wooden floor in front of his door. “No, I’m already part of a church, and have been for nearly fifty years.”
“Oh, well that’s great to hear,” the other religious solicitor said.
To me his expanded reply sounded a bit rehearsed. “We’re not interested in stealing people away from any other church if you’re completely happy with it. Would you say that you’re happy with the church you now attend?”
“Happy?” Walter’s voice peaked incredulously. “I’d say satisfied.” Then he rumbled the conversation to a stop. “I’m not looking for a change of any kind.”
Before either of the young men could start his follow-up, Walter added, “So, I wish you a good afternoon. I don’t have any more to say.”
I heard the door close a half second later. I pictured the two young men standing outside the door, looking at it with their mouths gearing up for the next bit of their spiel. I smiled to myself at how easily Walter had let them off. As a sociologist specializing in comparing religious experiences, he certainly could have educated those young men if he was inclined to argue. I watched him walk slowly into the living room, tucking his white cotton shirt and hiking up his pants as he often did when he was nervous.
“Not interested in converting?” I teased him.
“‘Are you happy with your current church?’” He quoted the solicitor incredulously. “I don’t think happy and church go together for most people, do you?”
At the time I was still attending a big nondenominational church on the edge of town. “Well, I think my church makes my teeth whiter and keeps me looking younger.”
Walter had laughed at my joke. “You might want to hit the streets and see if you can sell that door-to-door. But I’ll just stick with what I know and leave the happiness to the advertising agencies.”
Neither of us laughed about church and religion these days. “This isn’t the way you used to talk about your faith,” I said, glancing at him before turning back to the winter scene outside.
He nodded. “You noticed that, did you? Yep, this is a whole new experience for me, like I was missing something all these years and didn’t even know it.”
I smiled as if I understood, but I felt like a bit of a phony, affirming Walter’s transformation while still keeping myself safely out of the way of the passing train that had picked him up. That this train was going somewhere important impressed me less than the fact that it was fast and dangerous.
We silently watched the falling snow sharply illuminated against the dark night. After a couple of minutes, I helped Walter to his feet and walked with him back to his room. There, we talked further about the dreams, until the night nurses good-naturedly threatened to throw me out if I didn’t leave voluntarily.
Chapter Eleven
Weary from Doing Good
By that Thursday, I had begun to accept a sort of push and pull between my accustomed academic life and the living Gospel contained in Walter’s dreams. From my peak of resolve the week before, when I dined with Jillian at my house and then went to church with her, I had sunk back into my routines, and not just the ordinary daily tasks, but also my ordinary way of thinking. In that mode, I generally relegated God to backstage with the rest of the old props from my childhood, gathering dust in the darkness.
Driving through a cold fog that left a sheen on the trees and sidewalks, I gingerly made my way to see Walter, careful about the condition of the roads. Still distracted by my dissatisfaction, I drifted into hoping that Walter had another dream to tell me, for in the middle of those stories, I knew what was important and lasting, and I wanted those things, at least in those moments.
Their conversation ended, Walter patted her on the shoulder and she turned to scuff across the carpet in her bedroom slippers. I was relieved to escape pretending to be amiable.
Walter looked up at me, apparently a bit startled by my arrival.
“Oh, James. I didn’t see you there. But I guess it’s that time.”
“Yep, your supper’s over and my day at school is too,” I said.
I followed him into his room; he offered me a seat and took his place in the big easy chair, reaching over to adjust a piece of notepaper with pencil scrawling on it.
“My notes from the latest dream. I did record it, but wanted notes here in case I had time to tell you about it.”
I sat in his guest chair and sighed expansively. “There’s nothing I want more now than to relax and listen to another one of your dreams.”
He looked at me for an extra moment, perhaps noting my mood and assessing a possible response. Instead of directly addressing my muted manner, he glanced at his notes and began recalling the dream from the night before.
“By now the teacher was beginning to lean on his friends extensively, and he moved more slowly both hand and foot. He must have touched, talked to, and even struggled with thousands of people in that day. As the sun inched toward the horizon, the teacher walked with helpers on each side, the two brothers, James and John. These two stood shoulder to shoulder with him, hands at the ready. They allowed him to lean against them when he stopped to touch blind eyes or when he opened deaf ears. They helped raise him after he bent down to touch a crippled person lying at his feet, their hands steadying the teacher without apparent strain or awkwardness. They had obviously done this before.
And He Healed Them All: Second Edition Page 13
