Healings, Part 1
A child has been admitted to the critical care unit and he has only a few hours left to live.
The family is asking us to come and pray.
The housing for terminally ill children was on the edge of the vast hospital ground property. It was given the name of a mountain resort town and looked like it had been originally designed to be beautiful. Inside it smelled like death and the communal bathrooms were not cleaned well. An occasional sad quiet figure wandered past like a shadow, with a bundle in his arms.
The building had gone into disrepair.
Some months prior a young local pastor had asked me to start coming with them. Their team went once a week to conduct a Christian meeting in one of the rooms. A Christian resident family was hosting and would invite their neighbors. This small room was always packed, people of all ethnic backgrounds and religions were grasping at straws.
Supposedly there had been miracles. I had not seen any.
But then, I wasn’t looking. I had gotten burned out from attending charismatic meetings in America with an emphasis on fake miracles and no real Jesus.
But here was another kind of meeting in another country, a very real and raw meeting. It was the kind of meeting I loved, because I loved the people. But sometimes it took a lot out of me. This had been one of those days.
I was ready to go home.
But the Pastor had just approached me about this boy in critical condition.
Across the medical ground, we made our way to the hospital. This was my first time inside and it was huge. We took the elevator to the appropriate floor and entered the room shared by four families. I recognized one of the families. They had been coming to the meetings weekly, but I had never spoken to them. Their boy had cancer and they had come from a distant region for treatment.
The pastors prayed a few brief prayers, and I closed my eyes, praying silently. They were ready to leave, and so was I. But, I had felt something during the prayer; a thought, an impression, something telling me that this wasn’t enough. And, that he would die soon if I did not stay there and pray longer.
I told the pastors that I was staying.
They look concerned.
The family looked concerned.
Even I was concerned, but I tried to hide it.
“How will we talk to her?,” the family asked the pastor when they found out that I was staying. “She doesn’t speak our language. “ “ I don’t need to talk. I’m just going to pray,” I said.
The pastors left after giving me a warning to only pray for this family and not the others. They didn’t want to get in trouble with the hospital. I assured them that under no circumstance would I be praying for other families.
I knelt down on the cold hospital floor beside the bed and folded my hands. The family motioned for me to take their mini rug to put under my knees.
I started in again. The boy was crying. He was in desperate pain with a high fever. The skin area around both eyes was completely black. His mother and aunt were trying to comfort.
I had barely started praying when I heard the still small voice again.
Ask them to cut the amulets off of his body.
What?
The boy had a large number of brown and black strings, tied to his neck, wrist, and ankles, according to their region and religion.
This was not a Christian family at all. I did not know them. I didn’t speak their language. I didn’t want to offend them.
How am I supposed to do that?
I pushed the impression out of my mind and continued to pray.
The impression to ask them to remove the amulets continued and became more urgent.
Very hesitantly, I looked up and motioned to the amulets, making a cutting motion with my fingers.
They didn’t argue or refuse. They didn’t look offended. They immediately started breaking them off.
Instantlyhe quieted. Instantly, the rings around his eyes became a normal color instead of black. Instantly his fever broke and he fell asleep.
Now, when I had promised not to pray for the other families, I had not anticipated a miracle… A miracle that was seen by all the other families. I did not anticipate them all begging me to pray for their children too.
I guess some promises are meant to be broken.
I remember one of the other boys because he was in a lot of pain too. His heart was racing. I remember him because when I went to the critical care unit a few days later, every family in the room had been discharged. His mother was the only one there, packing up their things. She saw me and grasped my hands. I don’t know what she was saying, but her eyes were shining with joy.
That night after praying for everyone, I looked at the clock and it was 3 AM. I fell asleep on the mini rug.
The next day the family helped me to get an auto home. How did we communicate? I don’t know, but by then it was not an issue. In the days that followed, I visited the boy often. He had been moved to a new private room. He slept peacefully.
The family invited me to visit their very remote village in the middle of the desert.
I said I would try even though I had no idea how I would get there. “Promise,” his mother said in English. She looked at me with deep eyes.
I guess some promises are made to be kept.
Part Two Coming Soon!
