WITNESS…HEALING
I Was There When the Miracle Took Place!!
by the late C. T. Davidson
I watched an associate endeavoring to assist him on
his weary and distant journey from the doorway to the front seat. At times it
looked as though he tried to half-carry the unfortunate man whose determinate
purpose seemed fixed in his groggy meandering down the aisle.
Several ministers shared in my scrutiny of a man—a
paralytic for more than eight years—and someone murmured, “Lord, have mercy on
that man,” when we saw his gnarled hands that tried to grasp the canes upon
which he tottered along. Paralyzed for eight long years! Not so long to a well
person, but a long time to be sick—a day, a week, a year is too long to be
sick.
That bony structure called a man! Perhaps he had been
an average size person, clean-cut, robust, good looking with a stamina that
would rival the zeal of any athlete. But those eight years of pain and sorrow
had wrecked his physical stamina, had made him a helpless, groggy, tottering
skeleton—called a man.
The congregation began to eye him as he reached the
middle of the mammoth tent, struggling onward, while beads of perspiration
trickled down the sides of his neck. “Poor man!” was whispered promiscuously
and none gave attention to the speaker—everyone watched the paralytic. Some of
the ministers tried to assist him by offering him a chair when he neared the
front, and helped him to sit.
We looked at him for
a few moments as he slumped in the chair and never raised his head to stare at
the speaker.
Very unusual in a good tent meeting! Many of us risked a glance at the
bony, knotty distorted hands as they lay on his lap to ease them as best he
could. Naturally, sympathy solicited mercy—some sort of compassion to bestow
upon the needful, helpless victim—the kind that Christ had bestowed upon
suffering humanity when He walked the shores of Galilee. The speaker might
have alluded faintly as he finished his discourse, and the moderating minister
dismissed the afternoon session of the convention. But the paralytic victim sat
still, waiting, watching.
Relax period was brief—as a matter of fact, many of the ministers and
most of the laity lingered in and around the large gospel tent. They had reason
for so doing; a severe storm was approaching swiftly. The large gospel tent was
heaving up and down, while the side curtains that were rolled, beat noisily
against the side poles. Not too long would the stakes hold the anchor ropes,
then the large tent would be beaten into canvas ribbons in places by the fierce
gale that would sweep across. The people realized the peril of such a storm on
the seacoast of Virginia, for just last year it was a “northeaster” that
wrecked Buckaroo Beach, and South Norfolk was obviously no rendezvous for
safety. Distant rumbling thunder and chains of lightning kept flashing the
warning and the wind kept gathering momentum.
Several ministers sauntered outside the tent and gathered at the rear of
it to watch the great dark clouds vie with each other in their onslaught upon
us helpless creatures. We began to discuss the danger that awaited us. Fear
seized us and we tried to swallow the aggravating lumps that lodged in our
throats, but all the time we were trembling like shrubs in a strong March wind,
even if it were the last of June. We knelt there in the sand and prayed,
beseeching God for mercy.
Some of us reminded our State Overseer of the perils of the storm we
now faced. But there sat the paralyzed man, helpless, not perturbed in the
least by the advancing storm, seemingly resigned to the will of God. Perhaps
he realized that he was helpless and therefore it was of no avail to worry.
Perhaps he felt safe in the tent—maybe not.
At any rate necessity demanded action! The State Overseer mounted the
platform and called for prayer. No trouble to have a voluminous prayer for
ministers and laymen mingled their voices, imploring the mercy of God in behalf
of the storm. A kind of fearful uncertainty kept nagging at me and my voice
trembled as I prayed. I didn’t need the sanctimonious lingo common to many
prayers. Fear had worked perfectly. I don’t know how long we prayed but when
we finished folks shouted and praised God for deliverance—the storm had abated,
had seemed to divide near the tent, leaving it motionless. We had felt a touch
of the Master’s hand which was a reminiscence of the days of yore when He cried
out, “Peace, be still.”
My little faith in a big God soared higher and higher
as a continuous volume of praises went upward. The days of miracles had not
passed. I had seen the very hand of God in perfect deliverance. If He could
calm the raging storm He could do other things! My zeal climbed like the
mercury of a thermometer in summer temperature—God could heal the paralytic,
could change the life of the vilest man, for mercy stood out like a colophon
upon the title page of Christ’s career. He looked upon the multitudes with
compassion! Those two blind men who sat by the wayside received mercy; the
leper was cleansed when the Master said, “I will; be thou clean”;
devils were cast out; the woman who had spent her life living to be cured of
the issue of blood—twelve long years of suffering—was healed by the virtue of
the Son of God; He had once stopped a funeral in procession and raised the
dead. My faith was spurred to its highest, as well as others—I hurried to the
paralytic’s side, zealously affected by the power of prayer—“Would you like to be healed?” I
said calmly into his downcast face. Too full of zeal and faith to await his
answer, I added, “Come right out here, where we can get around and pray for
you.”
Before he could realize it some of the ministers had him sitting
in his chair in front of the rugged pulpit. Tears were streaming down the
cheeks of the vast throng of praying people as their voices mingled together in
supplication and prayer for this unfortunate man.
A sudden outburst of “praises” and “hallelujahs” rang forth in
triumph as the people prayed. One could feel the supreme sacredness of God
hovering around as He sent wave after wave of His mighty power, sweeping
through the huddle of praying people.
Like a flash the huddle of men and women widened as the paralytic
threw aside his canes, sprang to his feet and leaped and shouted and praised
God. Healed by the power of God! He ran up and down the aisles of the tent like
a barefoot boy chasing a rabbit in the clover fields. He had lost his
half-bent posture with his head thrown back, he was kicking up the shavings on
the tent floor, crying out, “I’M HEALED! I’M HEALED!” I watched him ram his
hands into the pockets of his pants; he had not been able to do this in eight
years. I heard him talk loudly to attest the healing virtue of the Master,
whereas before he could barely whisper. His face was lifted to manifest the
presence of the glory of God, gleaming, shining with the brightness of
heaven.
Tears streamed fluently down my cheeks as I watched this imitable
reaction from the mercy of the Man of Galilee. The paralytic’s face was lifted
in exultation— mine was bowed in humility and appreciation for a Savior who
brought salvation and healing to suffering humanity.
(This miraculous healing took
place in June 1934 in a tent at South Norfolk, Virginia, during a District
Convention moderated by Vernon H. Smith who was Overseer of Virginia’s District
No. 10. Among witnesses present were W. M. Lowman, Vernon H. Smith, O. A.
Duding, R. E. Howard, Pearle Davidson, the author of this article [C. T.
Davidson] and several others too numerous to mention.)
(The following is a reprint from a tract printed by the White Wing Publishing House many years ago.)
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