“David, you are all right. Your mother is here. Get up...” He sat up among his flowers and his mother rushed to his side. He recognized my voice and asked for me. I talked gently with him.
A happy procession. The bier was abandoned; someone threw flowers into the air as David walked...
I am overjoyed as I write. I see David and his mother kissing each other. Someone is singing.
From Nain I went on to see the daughter of Jairus as she lay in bed in her home. The curtains were drawn; the air was sick room air; flowers had wilted on her bed table; her dog cringed under her bed. I asked everyone to leave us alone.
“Talitha cumi,” I said. “Daughter, I say arise...you are no longer ill. The fever has left you.” As I prayed I also thought of John and his death. This little girl was not to fill a grave. I bent over her and took her hand. I could see her rolling a hoop, laughing.
“Talitha cumi,” I repeated, and sat beside her, pressed my hand over her forehead, touched her eyelids. “Rise, my daughter...you must sleep no longer...”
Her eyes flashed; she was afraid because she had never seen me; smiling, I said:
“Your mother is outside your room...shall I call her?” She nodded.
When I came to the blind man in his home I pressed my fingers over his eyes and spoke to him. I wet clay and placed it over his eyes. I allowed the cool clay to comfort him as I spoke; his wife watched with an expression of doubt; as I removed the clay she stepped aside.
He made a curious noise, pushed me aside, stood.