Joining me he said he had heard of my miracle at the wedding and my cure of the street beggar. He brushed dust off his immaculate uniform. Wiping his face he scrutinized me, then pled with me to come and heal his son who was, according to his doctor, dying of fever. I shared fruit and he introduced himself; he admitted he had sought me as a last resort. I pitied the young father, fond of his only child, yet so skeptical. Rising nervously, catching his horse’s bridle, he urged me to go to his home.
“I can’t wait any longer... You don’t seem to understand that my son is dying. Ride to Capernaum. Take my horse. Ride...help my boy. Master, cure him...he has been ill with a terrible fever...for days... I must find help if you can’t help...”
“Ride home,” I said. “Your son will live; from this very hour he will improve. Ride home in peace...do not hurry... God has answered your plea, our prayers.”
I felt my faith attend the boy as he lay in bed. For a little while he became my son—the son I would never have. I blessed him. My faith, God’s grace, would renew the child. My power was adequate. I did not need to travel to Capernaum.
Never looking back, the officer rode off, dubious, angry. A breeze clattered dry leaves above me.
I knelt in prayer.
ÿ
I am troubled because there are so many sick in the world.
Capernaum...Capernaum...the village might be all mankind.
Here I healed the mother of my host, a woman gravely ill of seizures. I had hardly helped her and finished my dinner when people clamored at the door, the demented as well as the sick.