In our modern,
technological world miracles are seldom viewed as possible.
Following childhood polio, difficult
health, family issues,
marriages ending, I began seeking whether miracles do really
occur. After all, the Bible describes many. Why not for me? Others? I
heard of none, until a trip to a seminary changed everything.
Anticipation ran high. I had learned at a
meeting one
evening of inspiring healing services held at a seminary outside a
city on the banks of the beautiful Hudson River in New York. Healing
through nutrition had been a keen interest since I was nineteen years
old. Through the years, besides endless study of the subject, I was
soon reading of the miracles in the Bible and the countless
spontaneous healings that had occurred throughout the world. I
questioned often, “they may have occurred, but
now?’ A
quick scan of my own life revealed no miracles. Certainly not the
blind seeing, cripples walking, cancer cured.
I had shared my grief with a man at a
meeting of
having a partner who was alcoholic. I loved him deeply, and though my
colorful, nutritious meals had positive results, the drinking
continued. Brad, the gentleman I was speaking with, told me about the
seminary. I learned he and three other fellows went monthly to this
special service. I was invited to join them. One Sunday late
afternoon, parking my car closer to where the driver lived, the five
of us headed the hour’s drive to the seminary.
We had to arrive early. My four companions
were
required to be in prayer and solitude an hour before the service.
They were part of a healing session presided by a
priest. I
learned that hundreds attended . Following the service three priests
stood at the forefront of three isles that led to the alter. Each
priest would be surrounded by four lay healers. That’s where my
companions were. Attendees lined up in the aisles
between
pews. One person at a time entered the private enclave of each group.
If a chair was needed one would be pulled up.
The service raised my spirits. I prayed
deeply for my
loved one's recovery. Concluding the main celebration, as with
others, I joined one of the lines filled with people to be healed. I
was asked not to come to the small group attended by my companions
that drove me. I was blessed with an experience called, “being
slain in the spirit.”
Following this inspiring service and
feeling at
peace, we attended a buffet set up in the seminary’s dining
area. I had the good fortune of sitting next to a man, a recovered
alcoholic, who worked at the seminary as a handy-man. He had been
there nine years preparing the seating, the books, cleaning,
myriad tasks performed for the priests before the many services held
each week. I learned there were five held each week.
Hundreds attended each service.
In my mind I added up approximately how
many attended
each week, each month, yearly. “Roughly”, I said to the
man, “that means about 200,000 hopeful,
searching, hurting
souls a year. You must have observed countless healings.”He
seemed pensive, responding, “ I have witnessed nine.”
“Only nine!” I blurted out.“ I mused to myself,
only nine in his nine years of observing. So many seekers, so few
healings realized despite fervent prayer, traveling for some great
distances. Hopes for the healing of my loved one
faded
considerably.
I joined my companions. They were very
pleased I had
the experience of ‘being slain in the spirit.’ They
stated not many have it their first visit. Marveling at the
experience, I asked many questions. The one that brought forth an
answer I have never forgotten I had inquired in the car going home.
By now it was nighttime. The trip home took
an hour.
I turned to Brad who was next to me in the back seat. “Brad,
what a beautiful thing you do, have you ever witnessed any
spontaneous healings, a miracle?”
Quietly, reverently Brad replied,” Yes I
have.
One never to be forgotten. My lay healing group and I had been busy
for at least forty-five minutes one Sunday when a young mother walked
into our small enclave with a 6 year old boy. I noticed immediately
the child had what was referred to as a club foot. The one shoe had a
platform sole at least 5 inches high to make up for the stunted leg
and foot..”
Brad continued, “ Father Boyd asked the
mother
to be seated in the chair he had requested to be brought forth. He
asked
the mother to sit the boy on her lap and take off his shoe and sock.
The mother did as was directed. I observed the shortened leg not
well-developed and smaller foot. Father Boyd began praying over the
boy. The four of us were touching the boy and mother.”
Brad paused, as if lost in the thought and
searching
for the words to describe, what I anticipated to
be an
unusual account. He continued, “ Joyce, if I hadn’t seen
this with my own eyes, I would have doubted despite my faith in God,
but before my eyes, as muted, solemn prayers issued forth from Father
Boyd, I saw the child’s leg lengthening and the foot slowly
returning to normal. I found myself hardly
breathing.”
Listening, I was hardly breathing myself as
Brad
continued his poignant account, “ Father Boyd told the boy to
walk across the floor outside our circle. We all watched in silent
reverence. The child walked about fifteen feet. It was the walk of a
normal, healthy 6 year old. He returned. The mother’s face was
awash in tears. At this point, I was misty-eyed. The priest told the
mother to take the boy to his doctor and get x-rays.” To which
we all responded, “thanks be to God.”
I was filled with a myriad of thoughts. Not
only of
the many accounts I had read in the Bible, but a great feeling of
love and hope for Frank’s release from the snares of alcohol
were possible with God’s help. I felt so privileged to have
heard this account. It was real. It wasn’t words in a book that
could be exaggerated or made-up.
We arrived in Hyde Park where my car was
parked. I
thanked my driver and Brad who had shared his remarkable story.
Driving home I was certain that I would be joining them again at next
month’s Sunday healing service. Little did I know that it
wasn’t too long after hearing about this miraculous healing, I
was to hear of another just as
extraordinary.
