Miracles

by Eric Metaxas

  So when Juanita was healed of this allergy at the conference, it was almost incomprehensible. But the evidence was impossible to ignore. Five weeks and a day after the conference, Juanita wrote on her blog about what had happened. She said that her world had been “rocked” by the experience, restating the extreme severity of her allergy and how difficult it had been at times to deal with. But she said that since Tuesday, May 8, she had “consumed a variety of nuts, nut by-products, and nut oils” with absolutely no adverse effects.

  She said that as a result of this miraculous healing she had told her story to many groups, large and small, and that the response had sometimes been overwhelming, with several people in tears.

  But she said that the greatest part of it all was watching her husband as he heard her tell the story over and over. She said he still tears up and remarks on how wonderful and amazing it all is. They now enjoy going to ice-cream shops—something that was unthinkable before that May 8—and visiting new restaurants where she tries dishes she had never previously been allowed to touch.

  She also said that the previous weekend she had visited her local supermarket and out of habit began reading the ingredients of a product when it suddenly hit her that she no longer had to do that. She remembered that she could eat anything she liked. The thought struck her with such force that she suddenly verbalized it right there in the aisle, saying, “I can eat everything in this store!” and got a strange look from the woman standing nearby, who obviously thought she was nuts. Ha. On the blog she said that her boss had told her she seemed like a new person. At the end of her blog post she thanked the people for putting on the conference and said there were “no words to describe what happened and how I feel. ‘Thank you’ is barely a beginning.”

  That November she also stopped having migraines, and in 2013 she removed the MedicAlert bracelet she had worn for more than thirty years.

  A BEGGAR IN GHANA

  Central Presbyterian Church in Manhattan, on Sixty-Fourth Street and Park Avenue is a gorgeous, historic church, from whose pulpit the controversial Harry Emerson Fosdick once preached, before fleeing northwest to the Chartres-inspired Riverside Cathedral, created for him by John Rockefeller. Fosdick didn’t believe in miracles. In fact, in 1922, just before taking the pulpit of Central, he preached an infamous sermon titled “Shall the Fundamentalists Win?” in which he made clear that it was ridiculous for “modern” people to believe in any of the fundamental miracles of the Christian faith, including the virgin birth and the resurrection. Today, the theological climate at Central is markedly different. Although not typically focused on it, the pastors who preach there clearly believe that the miracles of the Bible are true, and also that miracles can happen today.

  On the morning of October 6, 2013, pastor Doug Webster preached a sermon that touched on a miracle he had been close to. Doug teaches at Beeson Divinity School, which is part of Samford University in Birmingham, Alabama. He was also senior pastor at Central for a few years, and for many years, Doug has been involved with a ministry in Ghana, which he has visited regularly. That Sunday morning, in the course of talking about Jesus feeding the five thousand, Doug told the story of what had just happened among the people of this ministry that previous week in northern Ghana. It is headed up by an amazing man named David Mensah, whose own life story is filled with astounding miracles. They’re recounted in his book, Kwabena.*

  Part of the agricultural development they were doing recently involved getting heavy equipment and bulldozers into the country. In his sermon, Doug shared how that very week, those pieces of heavy equipment had finally cleared customs and could at last be put to work. It was the culmination of a very long process of prayer and fund-raising, so everyone in the ministry was thrilled. But something else happened that week that eclipsed even this event in terms of getting everyone’s attention. It had just happened, and since he knew those involved, Doug was so excited about it that he couldn’t help but tell us.

  What took place involved a man named Simon, who is the chief driver for the ministry. Simon had suffered with diabetes for years and in August 2013 a sore had developed on his left foot. The foot was deteriorating badly. In fact, David was sure Simon would need to have the foot amputated. But he didn’t have the heart to tell him that, knowing that for a driver to lose his left foot—his clutch foot—meant that he would also lose his livelihood. It would be a bitter blow.

  As the foot got worse, Simon finally went to the teaching hospital in the city of Tamale to get a professional opinion. The doctors corroborated what David had feared: The foot would have to be amputated, and soon. Simon returned home and told his wife that his driving days were over. What would they do? But the next morning he decided to go to a prayer service in the gazebo in the village of Tamale, where the staff of the ministry gathered each morning. The people at the service prayed for Simon’s foot, although he felt nothing in particular when they prayed.

  Later that day Simon was filling his truck with gasoline at a fuel station. While he was pumping the gas, a man who looked to him like a beggar approached. Simon instinctively reached into his pocket to give the man some cedis, the currency in Ghana. But the man said he didn’t want money, which of course surprised Simon. What beggar refuses money? The man then told Simon that he had seen that he was limping and asked if he could pray for him. Simon assented, and the man took out a small vial of oil, anointed Simon’s leg, and prayed for him. When Simon finished fueling his truck a few moments later, he tried to find the man, but inexplicably, the man was nowhere to be found. Simon looked everywhere, but the man seemed to have vanished. It was all very strange. Simon was dying to know how the man could have vanished as he did, and he was also dying to know who the man was and why he had done what he had done.

  But things that day got stranger still. When Simon got home, for no reason he could discern, his foot suddenly felt warm. It seemed that something was happening, and in the next few minutes he saw what. He said that in a matter of hours from that moment, his foot and leg were completely and miraculously healed. He said that he actually saw the coloration change with his own eyes.

  When Simon went back to the doctors and showed them the foot, they said that from all they knew, what had happened to his foot—a reversal of the worsening deterioration—was impossible. They said that they felt it was miraculous.* Simon knows that it was miraculous. He believes that not only was the healing a miracle but also that the beggar who prayed for him that day was in fact an angel in disguise.

  11

  MIRACLES OF INNER HEALING

  When someone is healed of a disease or injury in a way that seems miraculous, we cannot help but marvel. But there is still something to marvel about in all healing, even when it is slow and “conventional.” The idea that our bodies can heal themselves is in its way amazing, and to watch a wound heal over time is itself extraordinary, just as recovering from an illness is. If all good comes from God, then we may acknowledge that he is behind all healing, whether it is of the “miraculous” variety or of the slower, more typical kind.

  The same is true of what has been called “inner healing.” Anyone who has suffered grief knows that time usually heals the awful wound we feel when we first lose someone. Similarly, in many cases, our bitterness or unforgiveness toward someone who has hurt us may soften over time; the wound they inflicted gets better and we are not as debilitated by it as we once were. Of course, just as with a physical wound, we may be affected in a way that improves over time, but that never goes away entirely. We may have the equivalent of a scar or a limp that never goes away.

  Miracles of inner healing are instances when God seems to do in a few moments what would typically take years to heal—or which would perhaps never heal. Sometimes, inner healings can be linked to physical healings, as in the case of Juanita in our previous chapter, whose forgiveness of her father seems to have been a necessary precursor to physical healing.

  FORGIVENESS<
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  April Hernandez and I became friends as cohosts of 100 Huntley Street, a nationally syndicated Sunday-morning TV show. She and her husband, Jose, have been married eight years and have a young daughter. April and I both were born in New York City—and “in the boroughs” to boot, she in the Bronx and I in Queens—and we share a typically irreverent New York brand of humor. I soon realized she was a genuinely gifted actress, and then learned that she had starred with Hilary Swank in the acclaimed movie Freedom Writers and that she had had roles on major TV programs like 30 Rock, Dexter, and Person of Interest. I also learned she had done stand-up comedy and was genuinely hilarious. I could also see that her faith was authentic and solid, but I had no idea about the tumultuous past that led her to that faith. In hearing about it, you certainly wouldn’t get the idea that she was marked for showbiz success.

  April grew up in a tough part of the Bronx. In her teens she was in and out of relationships that were physically and emotionally abusive. It was very disturbing to hear her talk about how bad it all was, to think that this beautiful, charming, sweet, and funny young woman had been physically abused by boyfriends. She now does a lot of public speaking about that time in her life.

  One day I asked April if she had ever experienced any miracles in her life. She thought for a moment, as though she was trying to figure out whether she should share something with me. Then she said, “Yes, I have,” and immediately told me the following story.

  She explained that when she was nineteen, after spending the night with one of her various boyfriends, with whom she wasn’t even in any kind of relationship at the time, she found that she had become pregnant. When she discovered this she felt as though her life had ended. Thinking about it tore her apart. She was filled with shame and disappointment. As far as she knew at the time, she had absolutely no choice in terms of how to deal with it. There was only one choice: She would have an abortion. She said it was the most difficult decision of her life, because she knew when she had the abortion the April her parents had raised her to be would no longer exist. A part of her would die. But she simply felt there was no other way.

  The abortion clinic was in Manhattan, in a tall corporate-looking building on Park Avenue and Thirty-Second Street. So very early one Saturday morning she left her home in the Bronx and went there. Outside the building were people protesting abortion—monks, Catholics, and other pro-life people. There was actually a policeman there to escort her in “for her safety.” She felt the whole thing to be surreal. How had she ended up here? As she walked into the clinic she was surprised to see about forty mostly very young women there, most of them urban minorities like herself, all waiting to have abortion procedures.

  The receptionist was extremely cold, emotionally speaking. She handed April a paper to fill out, but at this point April was crying so much that she could barely comprehend what was going on. The woman finally acknowledged that April was having some difficulty and asked April if she would like some help. April said no. She took the clipboard into a corner and began filling it out. As she sat there, she was struck by the emotional coldness in the room. “There was no feeling in anyone’s eyes,” she said. When she had finished filling out the form, she went back to the reception desk and paid her $450.

  She was now instructed to wait. The waiting seemed interminable. It was hours before her name was called. They took her weight and blood pressure. Then they took a sonogram. April was eight weeks pregnant. At that point, the baby’s heart is beating and the brain and spine are developing, so as the nurse was printing the pictures of the sonogram, April fought hard not to look. But she couldn’t help herself and suddenly saw the image of what was inside her. She began to sob. She continued sobbing, but the nurse didn’t say a word or comfort her. There was complete silence, punctuated by the sound of her sobbing.

  April now had to return to the waiting area and wait for a very long time. In fact, it was several more hours. As the time passed, her dread at what she was about to do increased. She didn’t want to go through with it. She imagined fleeing the scene and running out of the building. She didn’t have the strength to do this, but she desperately wished someone might stop her from doing what she was about to do. As she sat there thinking, she overheard depressing conversations. “This is my second abortion,” one young girl said. “I just want to get this shit over with.”

  Finally April’s name was called and she felt chills, realizing this was it. A nurse handed her paper slippers and a blue paper gown. Through the bottoms of the slippers she could feel the frigid tile floor. She remembers thinking that it all felt like a Twilight Zone episode. When she came to the room where the procedure was to be done, she stopped at the door and noticed spots of blood on the floor. There was a machine with a suction-like tube that looked something like a vacuum cleaner. “Please come in and sit on the seat,” the nurse said. April asked her what was the highest number of abortions a girl here ever had. In a cold voice, the nurse said, “Thirteen.” Then the nurse asked some questions: “Where is the father?” April said, “He is not in our lives.”

  “Okay, well, the doctor will be in shortly,” she said, “and this will be over in a flash.”

  April doesn’t remember anything about the doctor, neither his face nor his voice. She just remembers hearing that it would be over in “five minutes.” She was injected with anesthesia and told to count backward and then she lost consciousness. When she awoke she was in a room with six other girls, all recovering from anesthesia. April’s mind was hazy and her vision blurred. Suddenly she called out to the nurse: “I killed my baby!” Then she began crying. She could not stop crying. A nurse said to her, “You did what you had to do. Everything will be okay.” But April knew she would never be the same again. She was devastated.

  Once the anesthesia began to wear off she was given water and a cookie. It had been many, many hours since she had eaten anything. Finally she was able to leave the building. As she came out of the building she saw that it was a bright and sunny day. The contrast of this sunny day with what she had just experienced was painful. Park Avenue South was bustling with people. She wondered if any of them could guess at what she had just done. But one of them could. As she sat in front of the building waiting for her ride to arrive, an old woman came over to her with a pamphlet that said abortion was a sin. April didn’t dare make eye contact with her, but the woman persisted in making her take the pamphlet. April made it clear she wasn’t interested, and the woman said, “You’re going to hell for what you have done.”

  In the days, weeks, and months that followed, April was unable to escape the guilt she felt over what she had done. She says she felt like “a dead woman walking.” But she simply accepted her sentence. As far as she was concerned, she was a murderer. She knew she would carry this awful burden forever. She felt that she had now become part of that awful stereotype and statistic: another Latina from an urban community who would never amount to anything, who would live on welfare and have children out of wedlock and have no purpose in life but to exist. The years that followed the abortion were very difficult.

  After a few years, April began going to church. But she under no circumstances was buying into “the whole Jesus thing.” She would go and sit in the back, where she felt comfortable and safe. She had somehow ended up in a predominantly Dominican church in the Bronx. Although she was a Latina who spoke some Spanish, her first language was still English. So she often didn’t understand everything the pastor was preaching about. But one Sunday morning as she sat in her usual seat in the back, things felt different. She found herself understanding more of what the was pastor saying, and she noticed that a number of times he said the Spanish word for “forgiveness.” The word “forgiveness” spoken over and over began to have an effect on her and she suddenly felt a desperate desire to want to be closer to God.

  April remembers that suddenly she was stretching her hands in the air, almost as though she were falling and reach
ing out so that God could grab her hand. The feeling was overwhelming. April began to cry, and as she was crying she heard the pastor say that if anyone in the congregation needed forgiveness they should walk up to the front. He repeated this over and over and he said that God was right there in the room. April absolutely didn’t want to go up because she knew people would be looking at her and she didn’t want anyone to see her, but at the same time that she was resisting she felt another part of her pushing her to go, as though her life were at stake. Slowly she began walking toward the front, weeping as she went. She could feel her heart beating, and she longed to return to her seat, to run out of the church. But she kept walking.

  “If you need to be forgiven,” the pastor said, “God is here and he loves you.” When she got to the altar she shut her eyes tightly and reached her hand out again desperately wanting to be touched by God and out of her mouth came the words, “Father, please forgive me for what I have done! Please forgive me, Father! I am so sorry!” April says that as she continued to sob she was practically screaming out these words: “Father, please forgive me!” Suddenly she lost all sense of everything around her and she felt an immense heat or energy traveling throughout her body. The power of it was so overwhelming that her knees became weak and she fell to the ground in the fetal position. As she lay there weeping and feeling this heat moving through her body, she heard a voice very clearly. It spoke with profound peace, in a kind of whisper: “I forgive you, my daughter. Cry no more.” She knew it was the voice of God. Then it said: “But I need you to forgive yourself.” April said that at the same time as this she could actually feel the energy healing her uterus, as if it had been damaged in some way. “I physically felt God move in my body,” she said. “It was being put together again, being made whole.” During this entire experience, she was lying on the floor. It seemed as if she had left the realm of time, as though it all were taking an eternity. But later she realized it had taken only a few moments.