by Susan Ellis
Jerry, one of eleven children born to a farming family in the Midwest, was ten years old when he contracted rheumatic fever. For weeks Arthur ignored his wife’s pleas to take their very ill son to a doctor, told her the Lord would heal him. On a visit home from nursing school, their oldest daughter saw Jerry’s limbs jump and jerk from St. Vitus’ Dance and said: “Better get him to a hospital. Now.” Jerry spent six months in the hospital recovering.
Thirty years later, Arthur asked his granddaughter, Emily, “Your dad ever tell you about being healed by the Lord when he was a boy?”
Emily shook her head no.
“Well, Jerry was home from the hospital but still pretty weak. The family went to prayer meeting but your dad was too feeble to go, so I stayed home with him. We got on our knees and prayed and prayed to the Lord to heal him. Suddenly Jerry jumped up and shouted, ‘I’m healed! I’m healed!’ I will never forget that day, not as long as I live.”
A week later Emily took a walk with her father.
“Grandpa told me about your being healed by God after your hospital stay.”
They walked in silence for a while, and then Jerry said, “The truth of it is, I knew I’d be on my knees for hours and hours praying to God to heal me. So after a bit, I jumped up and shouted ‘I’m healed! ‘I’m healed!”