And He Healed Them All: Second Edition Read online

  “The teacher nodded to him before moving to help another, a boy leaning on a crutch. Without asking about the problem, the teacher bent down and touched the boy’s leg. Instantly the boy made a little hop, as if he had stepped on something sharp. A smile lighted the boy’s face. The teacher ruffled his hair. He was about to say something but was interrupted.

  “A middle-aged man with stark white hair growled. At first, it seemed funny to me, a grown man making animal noises like a child. The growling was as uninhibited as a child’s game, but this was no little boy.

  “‘Stop that!’ The teacher spoke sharply.

  “The man stopped suddenly, as if the teacher had insulted him. The teacher grabbed the man’s head in both hands and made a little growling noise of his own, or maybe it was just a low guttural prayer. Either way, the white-haired man’s eyes popped wide open. ‘I can hear. I can hear!’ He put both hands to his head. ‘The headaches, they’re gone! And I feel clean inside.’

  “Around him, the crowd rippled with murmurs as they pointed to him. His white hair had changed to a more natural black and gray.

  “The sun had arched well up in the sky by this time, warming the barren hillside. Only the slightest hint of a breeze muted the Mediterranean heat. Those accompanying the sick provided shade for them, and youngsters were sent down the hill for water. There was, of course, no provision for this many people so far from any town.

  “Off to the right of the teacher, a disturbance stirred the crowd. I don’t think the teacher saw it, because he was busy restoring the flexibility to a man’s elbow. Shouting, cursing, and a cloud of dust rose about ten yards from where the teacher stood. A moment later the crowd parted and a man appeared, holding another man by the collar and hitting him when he tried to break away.

  “‘Peter!’ the teacher said.

  “Peter, a leather-skinned man with a hard brow and lively eyes, stopped hitting the man but kept his grip on the thin, wolfish man with a pointed beard. ‘This thief was cutting purse strings and picking things out of people’s bags and baskets.’ Peter scowled at the thief. The men around him hemmed in the thief when they heard this, so that Peter had to struggle less forcefully to keep the thief in custody.

  “The teacher stepped into the space directly in front of the captive, whose eyes were downcast, fixed on the ground. First the teacher spoke to Peter. ‘Did you return what he stole?’

  “‘As much as I saw him steal.’

  “The teacher nodded, keeping his eyes on the man the whole time. The thief raised his head and looked at the teacher. I wondered if he was checking for a way to escape, but once he met the eyes of the teacher he remained still. His tangled hair had acquired a patina of dust, presumably from the scuffle with Peter. He must have been knocked to the ground at least once, and looked the worse for it. The teacher wiped the man’s face and put his finger on a long, ugly scar running from above his right eyebrow past the corner of his mouth. The jagged line subtly distorted the shape of the thief’s face.

  “Those two men now seemed oblivious to the crowd around them. The teacher traced the scar from top to bottom. The features of the hard, angry face of the captive thief turned into the frightened face of a child. He burst into tears. Peter let go of the thief’s coat; but the teacher maintained his gentle touch on the man’s face.

  “The teacher spoke just above a whisper. ‘Those who hurt you will hurt you no more. Those that haunt you will haunt you no more. Your Father in heaven heals you and welcomes you into his household.’

  “With that, the teacher pulled back his hand. The disfiguring scar was gone. All that remained were tear tracks through the dust. The thief opened his eyes and looked again into the teacher’s. He reached for his belt and pulled a pouch from under his cloak, turning slightly to hand this to Peter.

  “Peter glanced at the teacher, shrugged, and then went back through the crowd, apparently to try to sort out who had lost this remaining contraband.

  “As I looked on, it felt as if the two men, the teacher and the former thief, remained locked in a mental connection, like links in a chain.

  “I wondered if this bonding had some healing power in itself. To be attended to so truly and purely, to have the complete and total attention of one so caring and compassionate must have powerfully affected these people as did the physical healing they received, of course.”

  Walter stopped there, his head slightly bowed, a content smile bending his lips.

  “That was the end?” I said.

  “I think so.” Walter squinted, as if to see into his tired old memory. “I’m sure I left things out, but it seems to me that’s about where it ended.”

  “Doesn’t seem like an ending does it?” I said.

  He gave me the same sly smile that he used to show to students who were close to getting an important point he was making in class. I had seen that look a hundred times and felt an internal shift into an undefined hope, at least a hope that wasn’t clear to me at that point. I remained conflicted about the dreams, still trying to convince myself that this experience was real.

  “You know, I think the best part of this experience is seeing the face of Jesus,” Walter said, as if hearing my thoughts. “The look in his eyes when he sees someone in need makes me desperate to believe that what I’m seeing is real. ’Cause if it is real, and this is actually what Jesus was like, then he deserves a lot more from me than a sort of passive acceptance and bit of attention during a brief hour on Sunday.”

  I rubbed my Sunday whiskers, neglected by the razor for my day of rest. My own response to that challenge Walter saw in the dreams remained under layers and layers of accumulated questions and missing answers. I didn’t feel as if I could even begin to dig out of my unbelief far enough to consider the leap of faith Walter seemed to be contemplating.

  When I didn’t say anything, he said, “I think there’s more in this for you and me. It’s not over yet.”

  Chapter Three

  Going Deeper

  I called Jillian at home after leaving Walter on Sunday. We agreed to meet at a coffee shop near campus after work the next day.

  The cool, dark street backed our reflection in the front window next to table where we sat. Two people over forty, perhaps slimmer than average, bookish, and mostly serious, looked at each other across a white Melamine table and over steaming cups that warmed slightly red noses. This was the first time I’d seen her without her hair pinned up and her therapist attire. She wore a different pair of glasses that made her look younger, almost like one of my students, though she was certainly twice the age of those college kids.

  I put both hands between my knees in search of warmth and looked from her blurred reflection in the window to her live presence. “Anything remarkable at work today?” I realized too late how much it sounded like something I would have asked Debra when we were still married.

  Jillian nodded. “A woman I’d been caring for died early this morning.” She looked at me as if to assess the impact of her news, as aware as I was of how different that workplace experience was from anything I faced at school.

  I sighed slightly and pursed my lips. “How are you doing with that?”

  She smiled and studied me, as if she were weighing some kind of complex proposal. “Thanks for asking.” She looked down at her sugar-free mocha. “Alice, the woman who died, was suffering from dementia for the last years of her life, and I felt like I lost contact with her months ago, as if she was gone from her frail, old body already. That makes her death seem sort of like the end of a mourning process instead of the beginning. But then, it makes everything seem so final. Any little hope of improvement, even for a glimpse of clarity, is over now.”

  “How do you do it? How do you face the loss and suffering day in and day out?”

  She shook her head. “I hope it doesn’t sound like a religious dodge, but for me God gives grace for just what we need. It may seem impossible to you, but that’s just because you’re not called to it. I have to grieve,
but I know from experience that life and hope lie at the end of every grieving experience.”

  I shook my head in wonder at the woman seated across from me. Her hair was pushed behind her ears but some of her rich locks slipped off of her left shoulder in a big loop. I felt the need to set my emotional emergency brake right there and then. I so admired everything I had observed in Jillian to that point that a moment of panic warned me to slow way down internally. Externally, I hoped I looked like I was just sitting in that body-molded plastic chair, stirring my latte.

  Perhaps picking up the sound of my internal alerts, Jillian asked one of those hard questions. “How long have you been divorced?”

  Most people avoid the “D” topic, though anyone with any prospect of a romantic attachment knows they have to traverse that territory some time. I admired her courage (along with everything else).

  “Six, no, five years.” I recalculating even as I rewarded her courage with a ready answer. I smiled, knowing what she should ask next. “And, yes, I’m over it, if being over it means no longer lying awake at night replaying the arguments, the negotiations with lawyers, and the things I wish I would have said all along the way. I sleep fine now, and without the aid of medication.”

  “I’ve had those nights,” she said, quick to let me know that this was not a doctor-patient conversation. “I was engaged twice. The first was when I was in college and the second was four years ago. I remember those replayed arguments, and even just recalled conversations where I would have said it better if I had just had a chance to script it ahead of time.” She sipped her mocha.

  I watched every detail of her movements. “I tried the scripting thing, writing these long, insightful emails late at night when I was so sure they would fix everything. That was a failure every time.”

  She laughed. “You mean I’ve been deceiving myself all this time? The script doesn’t help?”

  I nodded, trying to look the wise old sage.

  After finishing our warm drinks and some less weighty conversation, we parted that night, each driving our own vehicles, with mutual confidence, I think, that we would be seeing each other again and not just in Walter’s room at the retirement home.

  On the following Wednesday, I had barely entered Walter’s room when he announced, “I had another dream!”

  “A new episode?” I said, half joking.

  He laughed. “Yes. It was clearly a continuation of the first two. Sit. Let me tell you what I remember of the dream.” He pointed to the chair.

  As I pulled off my coat and sank into the chair, I said, “I’ve gotta get you a digital recorder in case this goes on like this.”

  “That might be a good idea,” Walter said. “All set?”

  I nodded once.

  Walter started, in the even and warm storytelling tone I learned to expect of his dream narrations.

  “I saw a little girl standing in front of the teacher; her face was horribly scarred.”

  As Walter told his dream, I closed my eyes and tried to picture it.

  “Her mother said, ‘She fell into a fire when she was small. Doctors had done all they could to get the skin to heal back over her chin and nose. It causes her continuous pain. Can you help her?’

  “‘Can I?’ The teacher raised his eyebrows. He smiled.

  “Kneeling down he took the girl’s face in his big hands. He looked at her. ‘Like new,’ is all he said.

  “The girl jumped back as if he had pinched her. But he still cupped his hands as if around her face. Any thought that the teacher might have hurt the girl in some way vanished with the look on her face. She beamed. Her skin was smooth and clean, as it was meant to be. She was completely restored.

  “‘Alleluia!’ she shouted.

  “Her mother joined in praising God, only she didn’t stop with just one word.

  “The girl jumped up into her mother’s arms.

  “While mother and daughter rejoiced, the teacher went to a man with the bottom part of his left leg missing; the stump stuck out in front as he stood between two wooden crutches.

  “‘How did this happen?’

  “‘When I was a boy, I was working in the field with my older brother. I stumbled under the oxen when I tried to grab at a butterfly that flew in front of the plow. My brother shouted at me and tried to stop the plow, but it was too late. The plow raked over my leg.’ The man struggled to speak, shaking like an animal in shock.

  “‘Whose fault was it?’

  “The man looked puzzled, as if to wonder what difference it would make. ‘Mine, I suppose.’ His voice vibrated with his shaking.

  “The teacher nodded. ‘We should forgive that little boy, shouldn’t we?’

  “The man cocked his eyebrows, obviously surprised at the thought. ‘Yes, I suppose.’

  “The teacher said no more. He reached for the stump of the man’s leg. I can only describe what followed as resembling someone forming a leg and a foot out of clay. The teacher took hold of the stump and it seemed to grow in his hand. It took nearly a minute of forming and stretching. The whole time, the man shouted over and over, as if someone was poking him with a sharp stick.

  “The woman and her daughter who had been healed from the burn scar had stayed to see what the teacher would do next. They began to shout and dance and sing their Alleluias again. Others around them followed in the song. Meanwhile, the man with the new leg held his crutches above his head and spun around and around, singing and shouting praises to God, until he was too dizzy to stand. Two of the teacher’s friends caught the unsteady man as he fell over laughing.

  “The teacher stood, closed his eyes briefly, and raised his face to the sky, as if simply enjoying the heat of the sun on his skin. He touched the out-stretched hand of one of the singers, who stopped his song and reached inside his shirt to feel along his collarbone. ‘It’s gone! The sore lump has disappeared. Alleluia!’

  “In another moment, a woman who had come with a raw-looking rash on her face was on the ground, crying tears of joy at her healing. She kept stroking her silky cheeks and neck as she cried and shouted praises along with the growing chorus of worshippers around her.

  “The teacher’s healing touch seemed to gravitate toward the worshippers. Men waving their hands above their heads to celebrate the healings they witnessed received his touch and grabbed the parts of their bodies that had been sick or wounded but were now healed. Smiles, shouts, and laughter followed.

  “It was hard to understand what they were all saying because of the shouting and laughing that layered over the singing. The worship was purely spontaneous. The people seemed unable to stop themselves. And the energy of their thanksgiving seemed to feed the hand of the healer with more power. He no longer stopped to talk to the people he touched; he simply healed them and moved on to the next person. Many of those he touched fell backward or lurched forward.

  “Reaching for one man while looking at a young woman he apparently intended to heal next, the teacher received a kick under his bearded chin when the man screamed and flipped backward, his feet a full five feet off the ground before he hit the dirt. The teacher stumbled back into the arms of his friends, who were never far behind him. He regained his footing quickly while holding his chin. The worship faltered briefly and then swelled as he laughed at the joke he had played on himself.

  “The next person he touched, he made a playful point of reaching out while holding his face back out of harm’s way. His smile made it clear that he was teasing.

  “The woman whose withered hand he healed thrust her fully restored hand in the air and shouted praise with a liberated howl. Other healthy hands waved in the air to echo the thanksgiving. Grateful for their healing, the people began to dance and sing, joining the whirl of worshippers who trailed the healing teacher like the churning wake of a boat.

  “At this point, an older man came forward with the help of a young woman. His head was swathed in cloth, only a hint of gleaming eyes visible in the dark cave formed by this covering. I hea
rd the young woman say to the teacher amidst the joyous din, ‘My father.’ The rest of what she said was lost in the tumult. The teacher stood squarely before the man, peering at the strange figure. The father responded slowly. Gingerly, with just the tips of his fingers, he unwound the cloth.

  “What he revealed halted the nearby swirl of worship. Several people gasped. More than one woman stifled a scream with her hands to her mouth. A heavy hush fell over the crowd. Several people stepped back, as if fearing the man’s ailment might be contagious. I’ve seen pictures of this dreaded affliction. The father apparently suffered from some sort of parasite like that which produces elephantiasis. His face was grossly swollen and distorted. Though nearly normal on one side, it was grotesquely enlarged on the other. The eye on the swollen side was only a dark point hidden deep in what had been his cheek and forehead. His breath rasped hoarsely from his twisted mouth, his neck and throat distorted by the disease.

  “The teacher leaned forward with a fierce look, like a lion protecting his cub. The man and his daughter seemed dumbstruck by the piercing focus the teacher drilled into the gruesome face. The teacher appeared to look through the distorted mask, and with clenched fists he commanded, ‘Come out of him, now!’

  “This was the most force I had heard the teacher express. It was a command that one dared not disobey. The hair on my neck bristled. At first the ailing man stood perfectly still, but within seconds, he started to twist back and forth. My experience suddenly became more dreamlike to me, because I saw a change on the suffering man’s face that I can’t explain naturally. It was as if, for a second, the face of a dreadfully suffering child was imposed over the face of the diseased man. The ghost-like face of the child flashed in and out several times. Because of the moans and gasps from people standing near him, I realized they were likely seeing some part of this as well.