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
THE 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!
“God, what have we done? This reporter misquoted all of us and twisted this story around to make us look absolutely foolish.”
Insta
ntly, however, the Spirit began speaking to her and a certain scripture came to her mind, 1 Corinthians 1:27.
“But God has chosen the foolish things of the world to put to shame the wise, and God has chosen the weak things of the world to put to shame the things which are mighty . . .”
Falling to her knees, Lynn began praying aloud in the Spirit, finding comfort that the Lord would speak to her at this moment.
THE LEADERSHIP at Faith Community had been likewise praying throughout the day, and when Lynn arrived at the church for her weekly meeting, she was met with words of encouragement.
Arlene met her in the hallway with a hug. “Listen, you don’t let that newspaper article bother you, Lynn. Alright? Look at it this way—an amazing miracle happened to you. The doctors said you would be blind for the rest of your life, but look at God! Nobody can take that away from you.”
Lynn nodded. “Thanks for always reminding me of that. And you’re so right—every day when I wake up and I can see my alarm clock and the sun peeking through my curtains, all I can do is give God a praise!”
Lynn walked farther down the hallway, which led to the administrative wing of the complex. As she passed the sanctuary, she could hear one of the musicians playing “Great Is Thy Faithfulness” on the organ, and she paused to whisper another prayer of thanksgiving. Experiencing total blindness for seven weeks had radically altered her sense of the proper time and manner to praise her God. And during that dark time, she had vowed to the Lord that if He restored her sight, she would never cease to praise Him. Some meaningless article in the state’s largest newspaper that had distorted her words could do nothing to dampen her spirits.
“Good evening,” Pastor Gentry greeted her as she walked into the conference room. Not once, in all her time attending these weekly meetings, had she ever arrived before Pastor Gentry. She knew he prided himself on punctuality, but just once she wanted to arrive first.
“Are you holding up well?” he asked.
Lynn nodded, managing a small smile. “After what I’ve been through the last two months, everything else is small potatoes.”
Pastor Gentry matched her smile. “I know what you mean. The trials we face in life make us either better or bitter. Your particular trial has strengthened you in ways you don’t even know yet.
“I’ve talked to several area church leaders today,” he continued, “and there is some concern about any . . . well, any fallout from this article. Personally, I don’t think anything will come of it. As the saying goes, today’s news is tomorrow’s trash.”
“Except this wasn’t news,” Lynn commented, settling down into a chair. “It was wrong how that reporter twisted our words to make us sound . . . to make us sound . . .”
“Sound like what, Lynn? Crazy?” He smiled again. “Anytime . . . every time a great move of God happens, there is resistance from the enemy. It’s spiritual warfare 101. When I first heard of my friend T. R. Smallwood’s miraculous healing and then the other healings, I immediately began warfare praying—praying not just for revival but praying against every demonic attack and hindrance.”
“This newspaper article is part of a demonic attack?”
“I don’t know if it’s that, but it is definitely a hindrance. What’s most important for us now is not to magnify the problem, but magnify God in the midst of this. Our God is so much greater than anything the devil can do, plus we know that He is sovereign. If He has ordained something to happen, then it will happen. You can count on that.”
“TRAVIS, I CANNOT BELIEVE you would write something like that!” Andrea practically yelled to her brother over the phone. “And I can’t believe the newspaper would print it!”
“What’re you talking about?” Travis calmly answered, pausing to sip his diet Pepsi through a straw. He was no longer gulping his precious drink. On the contrary, after writing an article worthy of the front page, he was feeling extremely relaxed.
“I thought the story was pretty good,” he continued. “And Ryman did, too—he gave me the front page. The front page, Andrea!”
“Travis, you saw with your own eyes the miracle of Eddie’s healing—it was the hand of God! Yet you all but discredited it with this story of some delusional mystery man.”
“Look, I admit that what happened to Eddie is beyond my understanding, but my reporting was solid on this. The fact is, nobody knows who this man is.”
“But why did you have to make him out to be crazy? Do you want your own nephew to read about this years from now and wonder if some crazy man had something to do with his miracle?”
I really don’t care . . . “Like I said, I don’t know what happened to Eddie. Apparently, the doctors don’t either. But I was facing a written ultimatum from my editor. He wanted a good story, and he likes articles that spice things up a bit.”
“Spice things up a bit? Travis, I’ve been praying for you the past twelve years that you would come to know the Lord. And even though you haven’t yet, I still thought your morals were in the right place. Obviously, I was wrong.”
“My morals? What’s that supposed to mean? Just because I don’t accept this neatly packaged notion of God you’re always cramming down my throat? I didn’t do anything wrong in writing my article, and in the process I probably saved my job. People will draw their own conclusions—they always do, no matter what we write in the papers. But the facts are the facts. There have been some unexplainable medical healings with this mystery man involved in a good number of them. Yet nobody knows who he is.”
“But you wrote that this man claimed to be Jesus Christ. That’s not true!”
Travis shrugged and sipped some more of his diet Pepsi, refusing to let Andrea dampen his joy. “Depends on who you ask.”
Chapter Twenty
AWAKENING WITH A JOLT, the man groggily turned over in the bed. The Motel 6 bed’s comforter and sheets were scattered haphazardly on the floor and the pillow behind his head was damp. It was the evidence of yet another restless, fitful night, something that was becoming all too common for him.
The dream remained vividly etched in his mind as he yawned and pulled the pillow over his head. But it was so much more than a dream—it was the vivid recollection of the last time he and Nina had been together. The last time he’d seen her alive.
“Are you doing anything special today?” she had asked, a question she posed to him every day. She had always been interested in his activities.
“I’m going fishing with Pop,” he’d answered, just before kissing her on the forehead. Her skin was soft and warm; he’d always loved the flushed way she looked first thing in the morning.
“Your pop will like that. You two don’t spend enough time together anymore.”
He nodded, but he didn’t want to talk about Pop—a man who had far too many issues for him to deal with. But the activity of fishing had always been their great equalizer. It was just two men out on a boat, surrounded by nature’s splendor.
“I’d rather spend the day with you,” he said. And he certainly would have, if he’d only known . . .
“No, you go fishing with Pop. I’ll be at the firm most of the day, finishing some last-minute things for the case. The trial starts Monday.”
He groaned, pulling her closer to him. “Don’t remind me. I know how you get during court cases. Once that trial begins, I’m not going to see you for two months.”
She laughed. “That’s not true! We may not have as much time together, but I’ll plan to make the time we do have as meaningful as possible.”
“Let’s start right now,” he’d said, his passions stirring.
“Start what?”
“Making time as meaningful as possible.”
THE RAMIFICATIONS OF the newspaper article didn’t impact him until later that morning, after he’d walked into Five Points Diner for breakfast and had taken his usual booth next to the window. The buttermilk pancakes were especially fluffy this morning, and he enjoyed a quiet twenty minutes alone with his thoughts, gazing out t
he window.
That all changed, however, when Florence burst through the diner’s doors, pointed in his direction, and exclaimed, “There he is!”
Startled, he looked up. The ten or so patrons also looked up from their meals, though most of them were regulars and accustomed to hearing Florence’s loud voice.
“You’re the . . . Ohmigod, you’re the man from that article!” Florence hurriedly made her way to his table.
“I’m sorry,” he replied, confused. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
“There was an article in yesterday’s paper about a man claiming to be Jesus walking around healing people in Sumter. It mentioned an incident here in Columbia, though. A little deaf boy with deformed ankles who can now walk and hear—it was you! I remember you praying for that boy in here last week.”
He coughed nervously and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Yesterday’s paper?”
“Uh-huh. Here, I kept a copy.” Florence walked to the bar counter. He was conscious now of several pairs of eyes peering at him from over coffee mug rims.
This isn’t good . . .
Florence returned, waving the paper above her head like a bingo game winner’s card. “Here it is, right on the Metro section’s front page.”
He took the newspaper and quickly scanned through the article. Everything he read was precisely the kind of attention he sought to avoid.
“They’re talking about you, right?” Florence pressed, reaching out slowly and touching his arm the way a devout Catholic might touch the arm of the pope. “You’re really not . . . Jesus, are you?”
He jerked his arm away and picked up his glass. “Uh . . . listen, Florence, can I get a refill of iced tea? It tastes really good this morning.”
Florence nodded and walked to the counter.
Still aware of several stares fixed in his direction, he stuck his hand into his pocket, pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, and left it on the table. Then he stood to leave.
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