A Miracle for a Little Boy

Joyce Benedict

© Copyright 2021 by Joyce Benedict

Photo by Nick Scheerbart on Unsplash
                                      Photo by Nick Scheerbart on Unsplash

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. 

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