Brother Word (8 page)

After saying these words, the man stood up straight, looked briefly at James and Andrea, and then calmly walked out the diner’s front door and into the afternoon sunshine.

Chapter Twelve

T
AP, T-TAP, T-TAP, TAP . . .

Travis’s fingers furiously danced over his computer keys, moving to a mindless rhythm all their own as he hurried to beat the deadline for his next story submission. Despite his chubby frame, he’d always been an excellent typist, thanks largely to his long fingers. They were the fingers of a pianist, his mother had once told him when she’d tried to convince him to take piano lessons many years earlier. That forgettable fiasco had lasted all of one and a half lessons, as Travis possessed neither the patience nor the desire to master anything remotely as complicated as a piano.

And not that he was really
mastering
journalism, for that matter, but at least it constituted a job. A job that held enough respectability to keep him from being the butt of all the jokes at the family reunions. His two older, ultra-overachieving siblings, Maynard and Andrea, had both been valedictorians of their respective high school classes, and both had the complementary charisma and good looks to have everyone oohing and aahing over them like they were heirs to royalty.

Travis, naturally, provided dead-on meaning to the notion of a family’s black sheep. His last name might have been Everett, but that was where the comparison to Maynard and Andrea ended. He’d barely made it out of college, but he hadn’t really cared. He would have been more than content to find a minimum-wage job somewhere, peddling for enough pennies to indulge his gluttonous habits. But his father would have none of that embarrassment and had pulled some strings to get Travis this job at the
State
six years earlier.

With a sigh of relief (and five minutes to spare), Travis typed his final period and pressed the key command to save his article. Seconds later, Benny Dodson popped his head over the top of his cubicle. Benny, no doubt, had been listening for the cessation of Travis’s typing.

“Just finished, huh?” Benny asked smugly. In all likelihood, Benny had finished his article much quicker and would probably enjoy another front-page byline.

Travis looked up nonchalantly, as if Benny’s insults had no effect on him. “Just finished what? Oh, you mean my article?” He waved his hand dismissively. “Nah—I finished that two days ago. I’ve been working on something else all morning. Something
big
.”

Benny laughed, exposing two rows of perfect white teeth. Could
anything
about Benny Dodson not be perfect?

“Yeah right, Travis,” he replied, still laughing. “Perhaps this time Ryman will put it on the third page, instead of the last page.”

Travis gritted his teeth, using every bit of his willpower not to reach up and strangle perfect Benny’s little neck. And maybe knock out a few of those perfect teeth while he was at it.

“You keep laughing,” he muttered instead, in a tone of voice Benny couldn’t hear. “One day you’re gonna be reading my byline on the front page of not just Metro, but the whole newspaper.”

“LORD, TAKE ME ON THAT TRAIN
to glory . . . I got my boarding pass . . . I’m ready to go this evening . . .”

T. R. Smallwood’s prayers centered on one theme as he walked the inside perimeter of Hope Springs Church—
glory
. Anyone who might’ve walked in on him, unfamiliar with what was going on, would’ve thought Smallwood crazy at the very least, delusional at the very most. But T. R. Smallwood was oblivious to anything outside the scope of his eyesight, currently fixated on his open Bible as he walked the sanctuary’s floors. The Bible had been opened to his favorite passage of scripture, 2 Chronicles 7.

“When Solomon had finished praying, fire came down from heaven and consumed the burnt offerings and the sacrifices; and the glory of the Lord filled the temple. And the priests could not enter the house of the Lord, because the glory of the Lord had filled the Lord’s house.”

“Ahh . . . yes! That’s what I’m praying for,” TR exclaimed, rejuvenated as he reread the passage aloud.

“Lord, let Your glory be so thick in this place that miracles will spring forth like the dawning of a thousand sunrises! Let cancerous tumors dry up the second they come inside this place! Let broken bones and broken hearts be healed inside these holy walls! Let blinded eyes be opened and deaf ears be unstopped! Lord, I know that You are the Most High God and that nothing is too hard for You. I believe that there is an anointing in this church to heal the sick and afflicted, and I thank You in advance for a great outpouring of Your power and glory at the healing crusade.”

This was the secret, Smallwood knew. It all revolved around this—
prayer
. Every aspect of his ministry, in all the years he’d been in full-time ministry, had been bathed in prayer. His late father had taught him that in both word and deed.

“Doing ministry work without prayer is like driving an automobile without gas,” he was known to say. “You can be lookin’ fine on the outside with that car all washed and waxed, but if you’re running low on gas, pretty soon that car’s gonna be sputtering, and then it’s gonna stop altogether. Prayer is the gasoline that fuels a ministry’s engine. So when you want to go far in God, fuel up with some high-octane prayer!”

TR’s prayers were not only high-octane now, they were also further supercharged with
personal experience
. God had answered his prayer for a personal healing in dramatic fashion—healed right during the middle of a heart attack! There was a huge difference between praying something you
believed
and praying something you
knew
. T. R. Smallwood had moved past the realm of belief and into the realm of knowing.

“I know You as Jehovah-Rapha, the Lord that healeth me,” he now prayed, placing his Bible on the steps of the altar and raising his hands. “I pray this community, and then this whole state, and then this country and world may come to know You as their Healer as well.”

TR felt the power and presence of the Lord even more strongly then, and he fell, trembling, to his knees. The glory train had pulled into the station, and TR didn’t need to be told twice to get on board.

Chapter Thirteen

T
HE FOLLOWING EVENING
, the arriving crowd at Hope Springs Church was large enough to create a mini traffic jam for travelers in their cars heading south on Highway 15. The buzz around town had been further fueled by Pastor T. R. Smallwood’s weeklong proclamation that the evening’s healing crusade would be “an opportunity for God’s glory to shine like never before in Sumter County!” After preaching his usual “glory train” sermon in the morning, he’d handed out packets of healing scriptures, encouraging the membership to commit the passages to memory and begin speaking them aloud everywhere they went—the grocery store, the gas station, in their homes, and on their jobs.

“God responds to His Word,” he reminded the congregation. “When you speak that precious Word and come into agreement with what He’s already said about healing, you create an atmosphere for miracles to happen.”

Now Brother Sanderson began playing a warm-up melody on the organ while the ushers scrambled to seat what would surely be the largest crowd they’d ever seen. The small sanctuary of Hope Springs comfortably sat 150, but about twice that many people were expected to attend.

Lynn had arrived early enough with her parents, Pastor Gentry, and the intercessory team leaders to secure seats four rows from the front. After praying over her again, Pastor Gentry had gone to meet with T. R. Smallwood, leaving Lynn with a growing sense of anticipation as she heard the crowd gathering all around her.

Was this to be her night of healing?

Lord, I believe that You are a healer . . . I believe my sight can be restored in Jesus’s name . . .

She heard someone on the organ softly playing “What a Friend We Have in Jesus,” prompting her to quietly sing along. She heard people steadily coming into the sanctuary, but the noise level remained respectful, almost hushed. It was the anticipation, she thought. Among the whisperings, she heard some people praying in tongues while others spoke healing scriptures aloud.

T. R. Smallwood’s testimony that he not only had been supernaturally healed during a heart attack but now also had been given the heart of someone half his age had swept through the town of Sumter like fire blazing through a stack of dry kindling. It was common knowledge that heart disease had run through the Smallwood family line, and though TR had been preaching divine healing for years, few people, even Christians, actually thought the old preacher would be living, breathing
proof
of such healing. In a town where the average age was in the forties and the elderly outnumbered the young almost two to one, healing and health were important topics of discussion.

“Saints, are we ready to board that train for glory?” T. R. Smallwood’s voice now thundered from the pulpit.

The congregation stood and began shouting and clapping in response to the pastor’s trademark call to worship.

“My Bible tells me that in the glory there is no sickness! In the glory there is no disease! In the glory there are no crutches! And the glory shall fall in this house . . .
tonight
!”

The shouts from the congregants lasted for several minutes, spurred on by Brother Sanderson’s well-timed organ chords.

“Many of you have heard my testimony of how God healed my heart,” Smallwood continued. “He used an anointed man to lay hands on me and curse that spirit of infirmity, that spirit of sickness, and drive it right back to the depths of hell!”

More shouts from the congregants.

“Though I have not seen that man since, God has clearly chosen this time as a season of healing for all who will receive it in the name of Jesus Christ. Tonight, those who are sick, those who are lame, those who are blind—we will lay hands on you and declare you healed in the name of—”

“Oh my Lord!” A woman’s voice suddenly pierced the air. “Oh my Lord!”

Lynn turned her head at the sound; it seemed as if the woman was sitting behind her a few rows back.

“My son can hear!” The woman screamed. “And his ankles! His ankles have been straightened out! Lord Jesus, it’s a miracle!”

Pandemonium broke out all over the sanctuary. As Brother Sanderson began playing chords on the organ, Lynn heard the beating of tambourines, shouts, and handclaps around her. It was as if a spiritual dam had been broken, and a river of praise had been set free for everyone to swim in.

“Praise God!” someone yelled.

“What a mighty God we serve!” another exclaimed.

The spontaneous praise lasted for a few minutes, until Smallwood asked everyone to settle down and directed the woman to testify to what the Lord had done.

“My name is Andrea Everett,” the woman began, “and this here is my son, Eddie. He was born deaf and with ectrodactylism, a birth defect that fused the bones in his legs together, making him unable to walk. The doctors gave my husband, James, and me all the results from hundreds of medical studies, saying how impossible it was for Eddie to ever walk or hear, but we never stopped believing that God could turn it around for us. We knew that nothing was too hard for the God we serve.”

“Praise God, sister!” Smallwood exclaimed. “That’s exactly right! And he was healed just now?”

“Y-yes, well . . . I just happened to look down and notice that Eddie was rotating his ankles around, something he’d never been able to do before. I was about to ask him in sign language how he was able to do that, but . . . but then his eyes just lit up and he said that he could hear! He said that he could . . . hear . . . everything around him, and that he had started to get strength in his ankle bones two days ago.”

“Two days ago?”

“Let me explain. Two days ago we were eating out at a diner in Columbia, and this man came up to us and asked if he could pray over Eddie. I was kind of hesitant at first, but he prayed everything you’ve just been talking about—that Eddie was healed by the stripes of Jesus and that his physical body must line up with what the Word of God says.”

“Glory to God! Saints, are you hearing this? The Bible tells us in Mark 16 that we shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover!” Smallwood turned his attention to the young child.

“Eddie, can you hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” the boy answered.

“Glory to God! Eddie, would you like to run down the center aisle, touch the door, and come back?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Have you ever run before?”

“N-no, sir.”

“Well, Jesus has healed you, so you can now run for His glory!”

The bedlam of praise erupted throughout the sanctuary once more as the center aisle was cleared for Eddie. Lynn clapped her hands along with everyone else and wished she could see the jubilant expression that must’ve been all over the little boy’s face.

“Saints, the Healer is here,” Smallwood declared, amidst the joyous shouts of the congregation. “Come forward now to receive what God’s Word says is yours!”

Lynn got to her feet. Using a cane that she tapped out in front of her, she carefully made her way to the front, where she heard a concert of voices praying all around her.

The altar workers must have already been lined up
,she thought.

“Sister, I’ll pray for you,” Lynn heard a woman’s voice say. Walking in the direction of the voice, Lynn reached out her hand. A soft hand enclosed hers.

“My name is Sister James. I’m here to pray for your healing.”

The woman’s soft, grandmotherly voice sounded faint and quivering, and for a second Lynn felt a pang of disappointment. The sharp contrast in demeanor from the fiery T. R. Smallwood to the soft-spoken, gentle Sister James didn’t mean this lady possessed less faith, but Lynn nevertheless had wanted someone a little more radical to pray over her.

“What are you standing in need of, sister?”

Lynn swallowed. Wasn’t it obvious what she was standing in need of? “I’m . . . I’m blind. My prayer is that the Lord would restore my sight.”