Brother Word (11 page)

He closed his eyes in a futile effort to stem the onrushing wave of painful memories bombarding his mind.
Anything
was better than having to face the memories of the past.

“Oh God,” he whispered, sinking to his knees and falling headfirst into the soft grass. But God didn’t seem to be presently helping him. This was his cross to bear. Alone.

In a choice that was not entirely his own, he had been given a gift—healing hands used by God, which had wonderfully restored health to so many. Through his hands, broken bones had been instantly fused back together, cancerous tumors had dried up, blinded eyes had been opened, and deaf ears had been unplugged. But for all the good he had done, he was nevertheless paying an incredible price. It was a contradiction of the worst sort; an oxymoronic, cruel twist of fate that threatened to forever define his existence. Not a day went by that he didn’t ask himself if it was worth the loneliness and the life of utter obscurity. The nights upon nights spent reliving nightmares, weeping until there were no more tears left in him to shed.

Lying in the grass now, he remembered how excited and ready he and Nina had been to consummate their vows on their honeymoon night. It had been the first time for both of them, and with each new discovery of sensual ecstasy, their mutual love had soared to new heights.

“I’ll never love anyone the way that I love you,” he had whispered in her ear afterward, gently cradling her in his arms. The scent of their lovemaking was the aroma of sweet honey and wine.

“And I’ll never love anyone the way that I love you,” she’d whispered back, kissing him softly. “Right now, right here—I’m so happy. You make me . . . so happy.”

“I live for nothing else, Nina. I want to know what makes you smile and what turns you on. I want to know what makes everything about you come alive.”

She’d smiled at him coyly. “Well, I’m a pretty complex woman. Finding all that out about me might take a while.”

“We’ve got all the time in the world,” he’d answered. “We’ve got . . . forever.” He’d pulled her closer to him then, ready to make love again.

How was he to know
forever
would be so fleeting?

He rolled over in the grass now, eventually rising to a sitting position with his back resting against a cypress tree. He turned the old black leather Bible over in his hands, slowly rotating it between his thumbs and forefingers. He never went anywhere without it—despite its old age, the spine remained in relatively good shape, as did the gold-leaf pages. It had been the only item of note passed down from his late mother, Jacqueline, a woman who’d probably read every single page of this book a dozen times.

“I want you to grow up to be a man of the Word,” Jacqueline had told him when he was seven years old. She had been softly stroking the top of his head, the way she always did when she wanted him to know how special he was.

“Things in this world are fleeting, baby. I want you to always remember that. The grass withers and the flowers will fade away, but the Word of God will stand forever.”

His seven-year-old mind hadn’t grasped the depth of this statement. “Whaddya mean, this Word will stand forever?” he’d asked. “It’s just a book.”

“Oh, it’s more than just a book, baby. It’s
alive
, living and breathing. It reveals our hearts like a powerful mirror. And it’s how God talks to us—through this holy Word. Do you want Him to talk to you?”

He’d nodded his head, his eyes growing wide with thoughts of God actually
talking
to him.

“Well then, He will . . . You just keep your heart ready.” She’d turned to a bookmarked place in the Bible. “Jeremiah 29:13 says,
‘And you will seek Me and find Me, when you search for Me with all your heart.’
He’s up there, baby. God is all around you. And one day, you’re going to hear Him whisper such special things to your heart.”

He shook his head again and came back to the present. The constant flashbacks to the special moments in his past were driving him crazy. Looking down, he opened the Bible, and the pages automatically fell to the book of Jeremiah. The passage his mother had spoken to him over twenty-five years ago remained highlighted in yellow marker.

“I called to You, God,” he began, his voice trembling. “Don’t You remember? I called to You and prayed that You would bless my family. I prayed for You to watch over Nina and me, and give us the abundant life Your
Word
promises us in John 10:10. So what happened? I know I have no right to question You, but why did it all go away? If I could just know . . .
why
, then maybe I could move past this. Tell me why, God. Tell me . . .
why
.”

But the heavens—and likewise, his spirit—remained quiet. No answers seemed to be forthcoming, and he began to fear that none ever would.

Chapter Eighteen

A
NDREA’S GOING TO KILL ME FOR THIS,
Travis thought as his nimble fingers flew over the keyboard, typing the words of the best article he’d ever written.

But so what? This is gonna be a front-page story . . .

During the past two days, he’d convinced himself that he was not exploiting Eddie’s miraculous healing in any way; he was merely placing attention on some unexplained medical phenomena occurring in the region. Any self-respecting journalist worth his or her salt would do the same. At least, that was the mantra he’d repeat to himself until the story was completed.

Instead of researching background information online and over the telephone, as he’d done in previous articles, Travis had physically gone to every place where he needed a quote. Eddie’s pediatrician at Toumey Hospital in Sumter confirmed the boy’s ankles had been completely healed and his hearing restored one hundred percent.

“Never seen anything like it,” Dr. Erickson had said, shaking his head. “The bones in Eddie’s body were strong and miraculously transformed; almost as if they’d never been fused together. I wouldn’t have believed it, but X-rays don’t lie. And his once withered leg muscles have gained strength as well.” Though Toumey’s entire medical staff had been baffled as to what had happened, the proof of healing had been undeniable. To say nothing of the fact that Eddie could now
hear
!

Travis had also learned of the other healing testimonies from the crusade at Hope Springs Church, and like Detective Columbo (his favorite television detective) he’d tracked down four people who’d been healed at that crusade—T. R. Smallwood, Jefferson Embry, Wayne McCullum, and Lynn Harper. After talking with the three men first, he discovered they were all eager to testify about what had happened, maintaining that they had been healed through the power of Jesus Christ.

The concept of unexplained medical phenomena was not unheard of, as Travis had discovered during his research. Two years previously, a respected network TV news program had centered its entire evening news segment around the theme
Prayer and Healing—Does It Work?
After that story aired, several magazines and news journals had conducted surveys in the hope of establishing a pattern between religion and healing. And while the results had not produced definitive conclusions, they nevertheless inferred a positive link between those who prayed and/or attended church and the speed of medical recovery from various illnesses.

But the speed of medical recovery was one thing. Having blinded eyes opening, cancerous tumors vanishing, and deformed ankle bones straightening out was entirely another.

“This is unbelievable,” Travis muttered to himself, reading over the latest doctor’s confirmation while guzzling down another diet Pepsi. Though it was growing late in the evening, he had one more contact he needed to make before he would call it a night—Lynn Harper. He’d wanted to personally meet with her, but he hadn’t been able to find the time during the past two days. And with Ryman Wells’s deadline for the story set at noon the following day, his time was running out for using her as another source. Dialing her number (which he’d semi-illegally obtained), he leaned back in his chair and finished off the last of his soda.

THE PHONE RANG
just as Lynn was settling in to watch
Casablanca.
Along with a million other reasons to give God praise for her sight, one was that she could still enjoy curling up underneath her covers with a bowl of popcorn to watch classic movies from yesteryear.

Her first thought was that it might be a telemarketer; she’d neglected to place her home number on that “do not call” list, and lately she’d been getting heavily bombarded by those persistent phone pesterers.

But what if it’s Mom or Dad? Or Arlene?

It
could’ve
been her parents, calling to make sure she was alright. But her mom and dad were good about leaving messages on her machine; she would let it go to voice mail and pick the phone up if it was them. If it was Arlene, well, Lynn would let it go to voice mail. Arlene normally talked her ear off, and Lynn wasn’t in the mood tonight. Tonight was a night for watching Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman.

I should really get caller ID on my bedroom phone . . .

“Hello—Lynn Harper?” asked an unfamiliar male voice on the answering machine. “My name is Travis Everett from the
State
. I apologize for calling so late but I’m working on a story for Tuesday’s paper about the recent medical healings in Sumter. I’ve obtained some good quotes from Pastor Smallwood from Hope Springs Church as well as Mr. Embry and Mr. McCullum, and I was hoping to ask you a few questions about—”

More out of curiosity than anything else, Lynn reached over and picked up the phone. It wasn’t often that a newspaper reporter called her house.

“This is Lynn,” she cut in.

“Ms. Harper? Oh, I’m sorry. Did I wake you up?”

“No, I was up,” she replied, pressing the pause button on her DVD remote. “How can I help you, Mr. Everett?”

“Well, as I was saying, I’m doing a story about the healings taking place in Sumter, and I understand you . . . ah . . . that you were
blind
but now you can see?”

Lynn couldn’t help but smile at the salvation symbolism of the reporter’s words. “I was in a car accident almost two months ago,” she began, briefly outlining the injuries she’d sustained. She described how the doctors had been unable to help her damaged eyes, save for a relatively new procedure performed at UAB that might have partially restored vision to her right eye. As it had turned out, she’d never had to try that new procedure. At the healing crusade, she recalled how a man laid hands over her eyes, and how her sight had been completely restored not long after.

“My doctor, Sherman Winthrop from Palmetto Memorial, was absolutely floored by the retinal scans of my eyes taken after the healing,” she said in conclusion. “He says it’s like nothing had happened to them at all.”

“That
is
rather amazing,” Travis said. “If I didn’t already have doctor confirmations on these . . . these
healings
, I don’t know if I could believe them myself. And for the record, who are you attributing your healing to?”

“To Jesus Christ,” Lynn replied without hesitation. “I give Him all the praise.”

“And what of the mysterious man who touched your eyes?”

“Well, I don’t know who that man was.”

“That’s interesting. Both Pastor Smallwood and my sis—ah, I mean, another lady—speak about this mysterious man as being instrumental to their healings. Don’t you find it a little odd that nobody knows who he is?”

“I do sometimes wonder who he is, but that’s not really important. When he touched my eyes and prayed for me, his words lined up with both the teachings and the example of Jesus on praying for the sick.”

“So, you’re saying . . . this man said what . . .
Jesus Christ
would have said?”

“Well . . . yes. Yes, you could say that. Jesus instructed his disciples that they would lay hands on the sick and the sick would be healed.”

“Right. Uh, listen, I think I got what I needed for my story. I appreciate you taking this call so late in the evening.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Everett. It was my pleasure.”

Lynn hung up the phone and returned to watching her movie, having no idea how much she’d regret having ever talked to Travis Everett.

Chapter Nineteen

T
HE HEADLINE DOMINATED
the front page of Tuesday’s Metro section in big, bold lettering—“Man Calling Himself Jesus Christ Heals Several in Sumter.”

As Lynn unfolded the newspaper with her morning cup of coffee, her eyes bulged disbelievingly. Were her newly healed eyes suffering from some sort of optical illusion?

But this was no illusion—the first Travis Everett story to make page one of Metro had landed there because of its controversial subject matter. Apparently, a feature about some man claiming to be Jesus walking around healing people in Sumter, made all the more credible by the corresponding doctors’ statements, was too sensational to place anywhere except on the front page.

Still, the worst was yet to come. Lynn’s eyes grew wider with shock as she began reading the article. Her name was mentioned three times in direct quotes saying this man had claimed to be Jesus Christ.

“I never
said
the man claimed to be Jesus!” she screeched, slamming her fist down on the table, in the process spilling her coffee. What Travis Everett had done was beyond betrayal—she felt violated, almost unclean, as she held the newspaper in her hands. Travis had written that the aura of mystery surrounding the man strengthened the argument that he might be delusional. Furthermore, the reports of what this man looked like were slightly conflicting (Pastor Smallwood had not gotten a good look at his face; Lynn, being blind, had never seen him), which added to Travis’s hypothesis that the man might be disguised. What reasonable man, Travis wrote, would confuse people by not being straightforward about his identity? If he possessed some sort of healing gift, why shroud himself in secrecy?

Lynn’s hands were shaking when she finally set down the newspaper. How could this reporter have tarnished something so precious and beautiful by clouding the truth with shameless innuendo? What was happening in Sumter was not some freakish sideshow circus; it was a move of God! It planted the seeds of a great revival!