I Love Today

I had just settled on a movie when Tommy knocked on the front door. It was around nine o-clock at night. Dad answered the door.

“Hi, Tommy! Good to see you.”

“Hi, Bill.”

“What can I do for ya?”

“Well, sir, I was at my church tonight and there was this preacher who was praying over people so that God would heal them. And I asked him if he would come over and see Mark and pray with him, you know, but he couldn’t,” Tommy gushed. “But I believe that God can heal Mark, so I wanted to pray with him and lay hands on him, you know? I wondered if I could come in and do that.”

He seemed to hold his breath, waiting for my dad to respond.

Dad sized him up quickly, making sure he wasn’t kidding, then quickly said, “Sure, Tommy, c’mon in. Mark’s downstairs in the bed.”

I could hear the rush of someone’s footsteps coming down the stairs and suddenly, there was Tommy standing in my room. I, too, was surprised to see him. Surprised because it was late and it wasn’t Tommy’s style to drop by, especially at this hour. And more to the point, I hadn’t seen a lot of him in the year since my accident.

Like most of my friends, Tommy was having a hard time dealing with my injury. What do you say to the guy with whom you’ve grown up, played sports, chased girls, and run along the beach when he can’t walk anymore?

My friends were good about coming to see me when I was first in the hospital. They wanted to see for themselves if I was as bad off as they had heard. They brought cards and flowers, told jokes, and spoke self-consciously about their plans for the summer. They looked anxiously around the room, inevitably settling on the wheelchair that loomed, large and imposing, in the corner. And then they would speak, weakly, of their hopes for me to be healed, even making plans for when I “got better.” It was clear that they found it difficult, and excruciatingly painful, to accept the new Mark.

And so it was that as time went on and I was transferred from the hospital to the rehab center, and ultimately, home to my parents’ house, the reality of my situation settled in for everyone. Gradually, most of my friends came by less and less.

But there was Tommy, standing at my door. As soon as he entered I could tell he was not here to shoot the breeze. He was clearly pumped up, shifting nervously from one foot to the other, looking both excited and purposeful.

“Hey, Mark.”

“Hey, Tommy. What’s up?”

“Can I talk with you?”

“Sure, come on in.”

I watched as he paced nervously around the room. We made small talk, but that lasted only a few seconds before Tommy got down to business.

“Tonight I saw this preacher heal people at my church, and it made me think that, you know, that God can heal you too,” he said. “I know the doctors said that you were going to be like this for the rest of your life and all, but I don’t think it has to be like that.”

He paused and took a breath, watching me.

“I mean, I believe that God can heal you if you, I mean, we, believe enough. And I asked the preacher if he’d come with me to see you tonight but he couldn’t. But I watched him pretty closely while he was praying over people and I think I can do what he was doing. I’d like to pray with you and lay hands on you,” he said. “I mean, if that’s okay with you,” he added.

I knew instinctively that this was not a joke. I could tell from Tommy’s earnestness he was doing this out of a real sense of love and concern for me. Not wanting to dampen his spirit, which was by then threatening to consume him, I said, “sure, no problem.”

I caught a quick sigh of relief from him. I was sure this was as awkward for him as it was for me.

Tentatively, he picked up his Bible and started thumbing through it until he found the passage he wanted. He began to read, his voice rising as his confidence grew. After covering several passages of Scripture he laid his hands on my arms, closed his eyes, and began praying fervently. I closed my eyes, too, listening to my friend as he beseeched God to heal me. He prayed for a long time. Then, suddenly, he opened his eyes.

“Mark, give me your hands and let’s get on outta here!” he cried. Quickly, he grabbed my hands and pulled up, lifting my arms high above my head as he shouted, “in the name of Jesus, get up and walk!” My upper body lifted up with the force of his pull, but otherwise I remained still. I certainly wasn’t standing up, much less walking. I lay back against the pillow, not really knowing what to think or say.

Tommy realized immediately that his attempt to lay hands on me hadn’t worked. He looked stunned and deeply disappointed. I felt the air rushing out of him. He looked at me without speaking. He, too, didn’t know what to say. We both started to cry. Tears rolled down Tommy’s cheeks as he leaned over to hug me.

“I don’t know why . . .” He shook his head. “But I love you, man, and I’m going to keep praying for you,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said.

Then, awkwardly, he grabbed his Bible, turned, and headed to the door. “See ya later,” he said.

“Okay, see you, Tommy,” I called out. But by then he was taking the stairs two at a time. Within seconds I heard the door closing above me.

Tommy never came around again.