By My Hands (28 page)

Moments later the crowd was on its feet clapping and
shouting with Isaiah, “God is here.” Some danced in the aisles,
others waved their hands in the air. On the monitor Brother George
was clapping his ancient hands and beaming.

The pandemonium continued for five minutes and ended
only after Isaiah had stopped dancing. Pulling a large handkerchief
from his coat pocket, he dabbed at his sweat-covered face and bald
head and slowly moved to face the man in the wheelchair.

“Are you ready, Brother George?” Isaiah asked in a
hoarse and winded voice. “Are you ready to receive the grace of
God?”

“Oh, yes,” George replied. Tears flooded his eyes
and he raised his thin hands into the air.

“Are you ready to praise God-uh?”

“Yes, I praise God. I praise God.”

“Then Brother George,” Isaiah said loudly, as he
placed a hand on George’s head, “then in the name of Jesus, I
command that demon in your back to come out. Come out demon! Come
out-uh in the name of Jeeeesus-uh!” Isaiah was rocking the man’s
head back and forth as the man shook in an epileptic-like fit.
“Release this man-uh. I command it-uh!”

Slowly the man, with Isaiah’s hand still coupled to
his head, rose as if Isaiah were lifting him up by his gray hair.
They stood together before the transfixed eyes of the crowd, as
spotlights from the back of the building illuminated the strange
pair.

Then with volcanic force Isaiah bellowed, “Be
releeeeassssed-uh!” As he did, he released the man who staggered
for a moment, then slowly took one step forward, then another. A
moment later the man was walking. The band played, and Isaiah once
again skipped across the stage shouting, “God is here. God is
here.”

George, now free, began pushing his wheelchair
around the stage, dancing with it in rhythm to the music. The crowd
jumped to its feet and pandemonium once again descended on the
arena.

“I have a word of knowledge,” Isaiah shouted, his
shrill voice amplified by the public address system piercing the
arena.

“What’s that mean?” Rachel asked in a voice just
loud enough to be heard over the noise of the crowd.

“Basically, it means that God has just revealed some
hidden information to him.”

“There is someone here—someone with a sight problem.
No, that’s not quite right.” Isaiah paused and put two fingers to
his forehead and then continued, “The person is blind. It’s a man
who has suffered for years. He is in this section over here.”
Isaiah pointed to a large group just to his left. “Is there a man,
a man by the name . . .” He paused for a moment and placed the
fingers to his head again. “A man named Woody? No, wait. His name
is Wood. Is there a blind man named Wood in this section?”

“Yes!” came a shout. A man who appeared to be in his
forties was making his way forward with the help of a woman.

“Come, my brother,” Isaiah said with arms lifted
out. “Come to the healing that God has for you.” Two ushers helped
the man and woman onto the stage area.

Isaiah, microphone in hand, met the man on stage and
placed an arm on his shoulders. Silence fell over the crowd.

‘Tell the people your name, Brother.” Isaiah said,
placing the microphone to the man’s face.

“Wood. Gerald T. Wood.”

“How long have you been afflicted?”

“Eleven years,” Wood said meekly. “I haven’t been
able to see for eleven years.”

“What do the doctors say?”

“Hopeless. They say I’ll always be blind.”

Isaiah turned to the crowd and thundered, “When the
doctors give up, God gets going.” Several people shouted,
“Amen.”

“You see, doctors don’t have faith. They live off
the faithless, and when they can’t fix you with all their expensive
medications, they say, ‘Tough luck.’ But not so with God. Not so
with God.”

Turning back to the man, he asked, “Do you want to
be healed today?” The man nodded. “Do you believe that God can heal
you?”

“Yes.”

“Louder,” Isaiah commanded.

“Yes,” the man shouted.

“I say, do you believe that God can heal you?”

“Yes!” the man screamed. Adam could see on the arena
monitors that the man was shaking.

Isaiah handed the microphone to a nearby assistant
and quickly laid his hands on the head of the man and shouted, “Be
healed in the holy name of our God. Be healed. I rebuke this devil
of blindness; I rebuke it in the Lord’s name. Open your eyes,
Brother Wood, open your eyes and see God’s world.”

Adam watched the image on the monitor intently.
Slowly the man opened his eyes and blinked a few times. Then he
started laughing and jumping. “I can see. I can see!”

“What do you see, Brother Wood?” Isaiah asked.

“I see you. I see everything!”

“Tell the people what’s on my head.” Isaiah said
playfully.

The man looked at Isaiah’s bald head and replied,
“Not much.” Isaiah and the crowd laughed heartily.

Isaiah started skipping again crying out, “Glory,
glory, glory, glory!” The scene was repeated again and again. One
who came suffered pain because one leg was shorter than the other.
Another came complaining of migraine headaches. Still another
shared how she had been emotionally abused as a child and couldn’t
love. All were healed and each healing brought deafening
applause.

Suddenly, Adam’s attention was riveted to two people
making their way down the aisle. One was tall, the other pitifully
short: the crooked little boy was waddling alongside his mother.
Adam leaned forward in his seat, oblivious to all around him, his
eyes fixed on the two out of 14,000. What would Isaiah do with
these two? How would he handle such an obvious deformity?

This boy could not be a plant. His disease was not
psychosomatic.
If Isaiah heals this lad,
then I’ll
believe that Paul Isaiah is God’s man.

As the two approached the stage area, two burly men
stopped them. Adam watched closely as one of the two men shook his
head. The mother seemed insistent, but was making no headway. Adam
wanted to rush to her side; to stand up for her and her crippled
child, but he was too far removed. He watched helplessly as the two
men led the child and his mother around the stage and out of sight.
Tonight’s service was over for them. They would leave disappointed
again, their sorrow unresolved and their sadness compounded. For
the first time in his life, Adam felt like cursing. A beeping sound
redirected Adam’s attention.

“We’ve got to go,” Rachel said hurriedly. “Come on,
you can help me find a phone.” They located a pay phone in the
entrance foyer.

Rachel dialed the hospital. After identifying
herself to the switchboard operator, she listened for a moment and
then said, “All right, I’m on my way.”

“I’m afraid I can’t take you home directly,” Rachel
said. “I have to get to the hospital.”

“What’s up?” Adam asked, obviously confused. “I
thought you were off regular rounds.”

“I am,” she said coldly. “It appears you were right
about the Reverend Paul Isaiah; he isn’t the Healer.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because there has been another healing at the
hospital, and this one is as unbelievable as the rest.”

Saturday, March 28, 1992; 8:45
P.M.

ALTHOUGH THE DRIVE TO Kingston Memorial Hospital was
less than twenty minutes long, it seemed like hours to Adam for two
reasons. First, he wanted to quiz Rachel about the telephone
conversation, but, because of the short time she spent on the
phone, there would be very little to tell; the second was Rachel’s
driving style. On the way to dinner, Adam discovered the “thrill”
of riding with Rachel, but then she had been playful; now she drove
with a tense compulsion, weaving in and out of traffic,
accelerating where she could and slowing abruptly when she had to.
He wanted to say, “If you’re not careful, we’ll be sitting in the
lobby of your hospital asking people if they’re the Healer,” but
thought better of it.

The tires squealed on the macadam as Rachel abruptly
brought the car to a stop in the physician’s parking lot. Rachel
exited the car quickly and marched toward the hospital. Adam had to
run a few steps to catch up with her. They entered the hospital
through the back entrance and immediately went to the staff
elevator. Adam wondered if the lobby was still packed with the
infirm, or if they all had gone to Paul Isaiah’s service.

Adam looked at Rachel. Her face was marred with a
frown, her jaw set tight, and her eyes fixed. She was obviously
deep in thought.

“A penny for your thoughts,” Adam said, hoping to
lighten the moment.

“I’m not in the mood for clichés,” Rachel replied
brusquely.

When the elevator reached the third floor, Adam and
Rachel quickly stepped into the long pale white corridor. Rachel
led the way in a quick and determined march through a passageway
and into a doughnut-shaped corridor with the nursing station and
supply rooms in the middle. Rachel stopped at room 314. Looking
inside, Adam could see several white-coated doctors and Dr. Evan
Morgan.
Ah, the Grand Inquisitor.

Rachel and Adam stepped into the room. As they
entered, Dr. Morgan shot Adam a disapproving glance but said
nothing.

“I got here as soon as I could,” Rachel said.

“I would like to introduce you to Michele Gowan,”
Morgan said. “Michele has the whole hospital excited, don’t you
Michele?”

Michele, who was seated on the edge of her bed,
responded with a smile. Her face was radiant with joy and she would
occasionally giggle.

“You know Dr. Patton and Dr. Levine, don’t you?”
Morgan asked Rachel.

“We’ve met at a few meetings,” Rachel replied.

“Dr. Patton is Michele’s neurologist, and Dr. Levine
works in the ER.”

Rachel exchanged handshakes.

“Let me fill you in, Dr. Tremaine,” Morgan said.
“Dr. Patton, you’ll let me know if I get any of this wrong, won’t
you?”

“Of course,” Patton said.

Adam wondered whom Morgan was trying to impress with
the display of social niceties.

Morgan read mechanically from the chart: “Michele
Gowan is a twenty-three-year-old white female whose major medical
difficulties have involved her advanced state of cerebral palsy
which she developed at birth for unspecified reasons. She was
admitted to the hospital through the emergency room this evening at
6:30 with a head injury she received when her mechanized wheelchair
tipped over on the drive of her parents’ home. Michele hit her head
on the bumper of her parents’ car. She presented with an eight
centimeter laceration that was treated in the ER. X-rays revealed a
slight fracture of the left parietal skull bone. She was admitted
overnight for observation.”

Adam was dumbfounded. The description Morgan was
reading couldn’t be the young woman on the bed. Adam had seen
several individuals with cerebral palsy and knew that they were
able to exercise only minimal control over their bodies. Only
through great concentration and patience could some of the lesser
afflicted feed themselves or pick up a book. This woman showed no
signs of brain damage.

“For twenty-three years,” Morgan continued, “Michele
has lacked sufficient neural-muscular control to feed herself,
dress herself, or communicate verbally. She has spent most of her
life in a wheelchair. As you can see, something has happened to
Michele.”

“Something wonderful,” Michele said jubilantly.

“Dr. Patton,” Morgan said, “if you would,
please.”

Patton was an unlikely looking doctor; his hair was
brown and shoulder length, making him look more like a 1970s
college student. “As can be readily seen, Michele no longer
exhibits the phenotypic characteristics of cerebral palsy. Let me
demonstrate.” Patton reached into his doctor’s smock and brought
out a small notepad. Without saying anything, he tossed it to
Michele, who adroitly caught it and then playfully threw it back.
Patton missed his catch. “As you can see, her eye-hand coordination
is normal. Apparently better than mine.” Then he addressed Michele,
“Would you stand for us, please.”

Michele obediently slid off the bed. Once on her
feet she paced up and down the room effortlessly and then struck a
model’s pose. She was obviously relishing her newfound freedom. No
longer was she an active, healthy mind trapped in a disobedient
body. She was truly free, a freedom that only one like her could
appreciate.

“Michele,” Rachel said, as Michele took her place on
the bed, “how do you explain what’s happened to you?”

“I don’t know,” Michele said sweetly. “All I know is
that I fell asleep—probably from the pain killer—and when I awoke,
I was like this.”

“You don’t remember anything or anyone?” Rachel
asked. “No. But I do remember feeling very warm right before I woke
up.” Michele smiled again. “But I’m okay now.”

Rachel was exasperated. “You mean to say that you
went to sleep with cerebral palsy and woke up normal?”

“Exactly. And look, Doctor,” Michele said, pointing
to the left side of her head, “the place where I hit my head is all
healed up.” Rachel stepped closer and examined the spot where Dr.
Levine treated the wound. There was no sign of a gash, scar, or
even stitches. There was absolutely no evidence that there had ever
been a wound.

Morgan turned to Dr. Levine, a short, dark-skinned
man known as one of the best trauma doctors in the field. “Dr.
Levine, do you have anything further to add?”

“Actually, no.” Levine looked shaken. “To tell the
truth, I’m still having trouble believing this is the woman I
worked on a few hours ago. Not only has she gained motor control,
but her muscles which had atrophied over the years are full and
firm. In the emergency room, she couldn’t speak clearly enough for
me to understand what she was saying. Now, if it weren’t for the
shaved spot on her head, I’d say that someone was playing a trick
on me.”