When I was ten years old, I found myself in a large auditorium at a Christian service of some kind. That was not unusual because once my parents became Christians, they really became Christians. They were hungry to hear more about everything and they were finally getting the answers to many of the questions they had been seeking for so long.
What was unusual was the boy I could see about five rows up. He was in a wheelchair and was obviously both physically and mentally handicapped. I wanted to go and meet him and introduce myself. I slipped into his row and got down on my knees so that we were both at the same height.
His mum and dad warned me that he could be violent but I was not worried about that. He wanted to say hello back, I just knew it. We sat together for what felt like quite a while and held each other’s hands and did nothing more than grin at each other. Then I slipped back to my seat and didn’t give it another thought.
A few months later we were invited to lunch after a service by some people that mum and dad had met in church. We all drove to their home and proceed to tumble out of the car. I was always in the middle of the back seat and so I usually got out last and today was no exception. Once my head popped out of the car the couple exclaimed “Oh it’s the little angel”
I looked up in surprise and my parents both looked at me with that “I’m not sure what you have done but you could possibly be in big trouble” look.
We all trekked inside and after we were seated, they explained that their son was profoundly handicapped and was often violent with other carers. He preferred to be tended by his mum and dad which was lovely but it meant that they had little respite. They had gone to the service that day really wanting to hear the main speaker but they feared one or both of them might need to leave should their son act up.
Then up I popped and they were able to hear the entire message uninterrupted and after I left as mysteriously as I had arrived, they had concluded I was a small angel. You can imagine how marvelous I felt when I realized someone had mistaken me for a real-life angel. It was a good moment!
Anyway, all the adults then got down to boring chatter and we kids drifted off and had some fun doing something or other. When we all piled back into the car to go home mum piped up and said that the lady had a ‘prophecy’ about me. She was adamant that I had healing hands which would bring glory to the kingdom of God.
I remember being unusually quite on the way home because I had a LOT going on inside my wee brain. I loved the angel story but I was confused about the healing hands thing. Did I need to start putting my hands on people? Wouldn’t it be awkward having a ten-year-old pray for you? I felt as though I had been given a precious gift - but it had come missing its assembly instructions.
One flaw that comes with having found God along with the rest of my family is this. Its that mum and dad had about as much idea of what just happened as I did. They didn’t know what to say to me and so the family headed up by two professional communicators chose not to communicate further about it. We all shelved it and moved on.
Like many a relative before me I did the most logical thing I could think of – I denied it. Don’t get me wrong I knew something important had just happened to me but I didn't know what to do with the enormity of it all.
Fast forward forty-five years - I am a touch typist and so all my words come out via my hands. I like to believe that my hands are healing but not in the way I initially imagined.
I feel at peace and I want to believe that this blog in some way provides that for you – a moment of peace for you in the midst of your otherwise busy lives.
Just breath in the peace, be still and know …