And He Healed Them All: Second Edition

by Jeffrey McClain Jones

  Walter’s dream seemed eerily similar.

  “James, are you all right?” Walter broke into my reminiscence. “What is it that’s got you so rattled?”

  Again I breathed a laugh, self-consciously looking toward the window. “It’s a story I heard once in Sunday school. I mean, I think your dream is about the same story in the Gospels that I heard when I was a kid in one particularly memorable Sunday school class.”

  Walter nodded. “Yes, I think it is about people gathering to see Jesus, or hear him teach. Maybe it was the feeding of the five thousand, or one of those stories.”

  “Yes, something like that.” I agreed, though he seemed to be leaving out the part of the story that Sandy Schaefer thought the most important.

  Walter sighed. “Do you know who the boy and woman are?”

  “Not Jesus’s wife and son.” I smiled.

  Walter laughed. “No, I didn’t think that was who they were.”

  “Well, what happened next?” I rolled my hand to prompt him to continue.

  “Oh, that was all. That was the end of the dream”

  “Really? That seems a strange place to stop.”

  “I suppose. But isn’t that the way with dreams? They seem to end at the most inopportune time. Maybe one of those night nurses trundled in and woke me out of my REM sleep just at that point.”

  I wondered if I should answer his question, and then he repeated it.

  “Who do you think that woman and boy were?”

  “Well, are you looking for the Freudian answer, or the one my Sunday school teacher would have given?”

  “To hell with Freud, tell me the Sunday school version.”

  I took a deep breath and launched into the free fall of that memory. “Sandy Schaefer was a substitute teacher when I was ten years old. She taught us from her favorite Bible passage in the gospel of Matthew, I think. Despite the fact that we were all church kids, with parents established in our church, this story was completely new to us. It was the story of a large crowd gathering to see Jesus, to have him heal people and cast demons out of them, maybe even raise the dead. Of course, I don’t remember the New Testament account. I’m only retelling what I remembered of Sandy’s version.

  “She told us that the crowd Jesus had famously fed with the few loaves and fish had gathered to be healed by him. The thing she kept coming back to was this phrase that I still remember after all these years: ‘and he healed them all.’” I could still see her animated face, her wide-open eyes and arched thin brown eyebrows as I recalled this part.

  A young nurse swept into the room. She wore a name tag that read Tamarinda. She came in to check on Walter’s appetite. We both laughed when she told him they were serving fish for supper that night. I assembled a brief explanation for the laughter, and Walter welcomed the prospect of the meal.

  When Tamarinda left, Walter picked up where we left off. “You say Jesus healed everyone in the crowd that he fed with that one boy’s bread and fish?”

  “That’s the way Sandy Schaefer told it, and years later I think I did verify it.”

  “Who then were the woman and boy? Are they in the gospel story?”

  “No, I don’t think so. But I do remember that when one of us asked Sandy how all those people knew that Jesus would heal them, she told us that the Gospels frequently mentioned the way that news of Jesus’s healing miracles caused crowds to gather wherever he went. It was even a problem for him, she’d said, because it made it impossible for him to go into large towns or cities. The crowds were too big and intense. That’s why he resorted to meeting people out in rural places, like the hill in your dream. I think the woman was there because she or her son had been healed, and it was that miracle that brought the crowd. I don’t know that for sure, of course. It’s your dream, after all. But that’s what popped into my head when you described the scene.”

  Walter adjusted his glasses on his thin nose. “So your teacher said that the crowds gathered to be healed? I guess I thought they just came to hear him teach. I knew I was seeing a sort of film version of a day in the life of Jesus. But I haven’t ever stopped to think what it would have been like if he really did all of the miracles the Bible says he did.” He stopped, tried to purse his lips with control over only half his mouth, apparently mulling some deep thought. “If your Sunday school teacher is right, I’ve been missing part of the story.”

  He stared down at the tumble of sheets and blankets cascaded over his inert form, but his steady gaze seemed to pass right through that concrete reality to somewhere his mind was wandering.

  “The strangest thing is the way it all makes me feel,” Walter said, looking over at me. I feel lighter, more hopeful than I have since the stroke.”

  “This must have been some dream to set you talking like that,” I said.

  “Oh, yes, it was quite a dream, indeed.” He shifted in his bed, his voice still hollow with distraction.

  I used the bed controls to help him sit up more. I plumped a pillow and replaced it behind his head.

  Walter adjusted his blankets with his good hand. “It’s made me hungrier than I’ve been in a long time. Just talking about it with you has given me an appetite.” He laughed, evidently amused at himself.

  Hope stirred within me that this one brief dream made such an impact on Walter, lifting his spirits and reviving his mind. Even if this dream was just the effect of an atrophied mind taking a few last swings, I drew courage from the change.

  The rattle of the food cart stopped outside the door. Another nurse breezed into the room, carrying a white tray with Walter’s fish dinner.

  “Well, it looks like your feast has arrived,” I said as I stood up. “Enjoy your supper.”

  “I will,” he replied with a slanted grin.

  I excused myself and said good-night to Walter, having stayed later than I expected. I checked my watch to see how late I was for meeting Jillian. It turned out that I was right on time. That venture into my deep, church-going past had obviously warped my sense of time.

  I headed back down the quiet hall toward Jillian’s office. I rounded the corner to her corridor and found her locking her door. She wore brown-rimmed glasses that made her look like a woman in an eyewear ad.

  “Oh, I guess I’m a little late,” I said, my head still full of Walter’s story.

  She smiled at me as she dropped her key into her briefcase. “No, just in time, I think.”

  I got lost in her smile for a moment.

  “How’s Walter tonight?” Jillian switched her briefcase to her other hand and turned to walk down the hallway. Her movement jarred me from my mental paralysis.

  I walked alongside her. “He’s doing okay. That is, I think he’s okay.” I held the front door for her.

  “What do you mean?”

  The cold hit me like a slap on the face. “Take my car?”

  “Sure, but tell me about Walter.”

  “Well, he told me about a dream he had last night.” I clicked the car remote and the flashing headlights punctuated my response.

  “A disturbing dream?”

  “Well, I’m a bit disturbed by it. But Walter seems excited.”

  “He’s excited and you’re disturbed?”

  I opened the passenger door for her, and she slipped into the car.

  By the time I got behind the wheel, I wondered whether it was polite to talk shop with Jillian, when she must have been ready to relax for the evening. “Do you want to talk about this now, or do you need some time to wind down a bit?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “That’s nice of you to ask. But I won’t be able to wind down at all until you tell me about this dream.”

  I chuckled. Pulling out of the parking lot, I said, “Do you like Italian?”

  “I do. But is this part of the dream?”

  “No, this is the dinner part. I’m really not trying to tease you with the dream.”

  I glanced at her and caught the flash of a grin. She took off her glasses and slipped them in
to her briefcase. This reinforced my suspicion that the glasses were just part of her psychiatrist costume, never mind the hours her eyes spent with books, reports, and a computer screen.

  I steered for my favorite Italian restaurant and told her about Walter’s dream in as much detail as I could remember. She asked a few questions, like a good clinician and an interested listener. By the time we reached the restaurant I had finished the basic story.

  “And you find this disturbing?” she said as we exited the car toward the ornate double doors of the restaurant.

  I considered her question as we waited to be seated, the sultry sweet smell of wine, oregano and marinara sauce wrapping around us. Why was I so bothered by this dream? Walter loved it, and it did seem remarkable.

  She studied me. “Maybe it’s not the dream itself that’s bothering you.”

  The hostess led us to a table in the back of the restaurant, swaying between the chairs in practiced rhythm, as if she could find our table with her eyes closed. The interruption offered another chance to think about what I was feeling.

  We ordered drinks after we’d settled into our seats under a hanging Tiffany lamp, with an artificial candle flickering in the middle of the table. Once our waitress left, I picked up the conversation. “I suppose you’re right. It’s not the dream that bothers me as much as the whole process of watching Walter get old, and thinking about his death. Then this strange dream comes along and it’s like a bright light in a dark place. It seems too good to be true, I guess.”

  “Too good to be true?” She tipped her head.

  “I have a hard time adjusting to what I saw today. Last time I visited Walter, he looked so frail and lifeless. Then today he starts talking about this dream, and as he’s telling it, he seems to look and act ten years younger. For a long time I’ve been dreading the final good-bye, then this dream invigorates him. It’s like hope and inevitable loss are colliding in front of me.”

  Jillian nodded as she unwrapped her silverware from the black cloth napkin, apparently as eager for food as I was.

  We sat back in our seats as the waitress delivered our drinks and took our dinner orders. Then Jillian picked up the topic again. “I’ve heard of things like this, even had patients with some fairly dramatic dreams that were life-giving experiences. It’s as if they get close enough to the other side that they get a look through.”

  I furrowed my brow. “The other side?”

  Jillian shrugged. “Sure, he’s as near death as you assume. Maybe he’s getting a glimpse of what comes next.”

  I looked at the yellow flicker of the fake candle reflected in her eyes. “So, you believe in . . . heaven . . . and life after death?” I shifted in my seat, pulling my legs under me.

  “I’ve seen too many things not to believe.” She sipped her drink and looked me square in the eyes. It wasn’t exactly a challenge, but that look left no room for uncertainty about how she felt.

  I realized I had succumbed to stereotyping, assuming this attractive psychiatrist was a modern intellectual who would naturally reject such notions as spiritually significant dreams. I scolded myself.

  “Why not just welcome the change in Walter?” She turned it back on me.

  I nodded. “Good question. Why not, indeed?”

  The waitress setting our salads before us served as a segue to lighter conversation. I learned about Jillian’s family and her work. We meandered from the predictable and safe topics to pathways leading deeper into the uncertain parts of our lives, less safe parts.

  Jillian had caught me deep in doubt and distrust about Walter’s amazing dream, yet she trusted me with her concerns about her ailing mother, her self-doubt about the pressures of her work among the elderly, so lonely and ailing and close to death. I guess that’s what endeared her to me so early. That she could see my flaws, the bits of paint missing, the dents and substituted parts, and yet she still trusted me with her heart.

  I dropped Jillian off at the nursing home and waited to make sure her car would start on that icy winter night.

  As I waited, I determined to visit Walter on Sunday. Not only to see how he was feeling, but I wanted another shot at connecting with him and his dream experience.

  I followed Jillian out of the parking lot. My tires slipped and then caught on dry pavement. As I turned the opposite direction from Jillian, my headlights melted the solid darkness just enough for me to squeeze through.

  Chapter Two

  Lightning Strikes Twice

  That Sunday morning, I slept late, took time to make a really good pot of coffee, and sat in my favorite rocking chair to read the newspaper. For the first time in years, however, I gave a thought to missing church on a Sunday morning. It was just a thought, not a commitment to do anything about it.

  I had grown tired of the same old church experience that bored me when I was a child, only modernized a bit to cater to a contemporary audience. It was one of the things Debra and I argued about. She liked the clubishness of her church, the bake sales, and other fund-raisers, and she liked the head of marketing, also known as the pastor. To me it all seemed reduced to the lowest common denominator, so I checked out.

  On Sunday I could take a leisurely approach to the morning, in contrast to hustling off to classes or committee meetings all week, even some Saturdays. The mental stress of trying not to criticize the weak arguments and rah-rah presentation of the churches I had attended wasn’t restful, wasn’t healthy. At least, that’s what I told myself.

  Me and The Times, that’s all I wanted on a Sunday morning.

  Later that afternoon I made the ten-minute drive to see Walter. Sunday was a popular day to visit, so the halls were active with people of various ages, many dressed for church and pushing someone in a wheelchair or walking very slowly next to a self-propelled elder with a walker or cane. I stood in the middle of the wide hall for half a minute while one balding, middle-aged man coaxed a much older woman past Walter’s door.

  “C’mon, Ma. I think you’re in somebody’s way here,” he said, a bit too harshly for my sensibilities.

  I forced a fake smile, like a dog trying to fit a small Frisbee into his mouth.

  Walter was sitting up already when I knocked on his door and pushed it open.

  “It happened again,” Walter said as soon as he saw me step in. “I was back there again. They were all pressing toward him, all of them who could stand on their own, that is.”

  He throttled back from giddy to instructive, and I pulled up a chair.

  “So you had the same dream?”

  “No, not the same dream; a continuation of the first dream, like the next part of the story.”

  Chills skittered up my spine. I shook my head, speechless.

  Walter smiled at me, a paternal stare over the top of his glasses, clearly enjoying my surprise. Seeing him staring like that, I cracked a smile as well. His mood was contagious. But mostly I was curious about the vigor and intensity with which Walter addressed me. His transformation from before the first dream almost startled me.

  “You seem to be feeling better,” I said.

  He nodded. “Quite a bit better, actually.”

  “Well, tell me.”

  He raised his eyebrows at my urgency, but settled quickly into his role as narrator.

  “The crowd looked like people at a wedding, standing as the bride enters. Or people beside a parade ogling their favorite celebrity . . . that is, until you looked into their eyes. It wasn’t just excitement, I saw pain too. It was as if they were so filled with hope and expectation that it hurt. Most eyes were full of tears, but not necessarily tears of sadness.

  “And in the center was that man again. His eyes were the most remarkable thing about him. They were alert, probing, as if he was looking for something and finding it then still looking for more.” He took in a shaky breath. “All that at once is the best way I can describe him.”

  I shook my head, more at Walter’s animated account than the content of what he was saying. I’d never s
een him this enlivened in all our years of friendship. I knew that Walter faithfully attended his Presbyterian church, but I never heard him speak so excitedly about a Bible story.

  He tapped the bed control, indicating he wanted to sit up more. As I’d done many times before, I elevated his bed and situated his pillows to make him more comfortable. Neither of us acknowledged the awkwardness of two academics struggling with sheets and pillows as if we were in a hurry to go somewhere.

  Walter tugged at his pajamas with his one good hand to try to undo a twist. He gave up, so I tried to fix it, until I saw Walter’s eyes shift left and right, as if looking for a way out of the awkwardness.

  “Tell me about the dream.” I stepped back and sank into the chair.

  He grinned that sort of three-quarters smile the stroke had left him. “You were right about the woman and the boy, I could tell from their conversation that she was a widow with only the one son to support her in her old age, though she was not what we would call old at all.”

  Walter’s confident tone and relaxed demeanor told me that he had been thinking a lot about the dream, such that recalling it was easy.

  Walter reached for a cup of water with his left hand. “It’s strange. The people in that crowd were almost all standing like they had been waiting in line for the bathroom for a long time.” He chuckled at his own analogy. “But the remarkable thing was that the teacher didn’t seem in any hurry. He smiled at them, his eyes full of peace.”

  Walter snorted another laugh. “His disciples, this little group of bodyguards, were another story altogether. They all looked annoyed with the crowd. I could see their tensed jaws and vigilant glances. For the most part, they reminded me of policemen assigned to crowd control, their eyes searching the faces of the people pushing around them, or staring above the crowd as if they were so many cattle. I guess my impression was that they had done this before.”