Authors: Derek Jackson
Five minutes later, wearing a fresh pair, she walked back out. Halfway to the exit, the sound of a man’s voice made her slow her gait, and then stop altogether.
I . . . know that voice . . . I know that voice!
It was a voice that she’d never forget for as long as she lived.
“As I lay hands on my sister’s eyes, I speak the healing power of Jesus Christ to manifest with her eyes being . . .”
Unmistakably, it was the voice of the man who laid hands over her eyes the evening of the healing crusade in Sumter.
She quickly looked around her, determining the location of the voice. It was coming from a bank of pay phones by the wall a few feet away. She walked over until she was two phones away, then picked up the phone and pretended to use it.
What am I, a spy now? Lynn Harper, 007?
But what was she
supposed
to do? Standing merely yards away from her was a man God had used to restore her sight. Apparently, God had used him to heal others as well, though nobody seemed to know who he was.
“I’m glad you’re doing well, Pop,” Lynn overheard the voice saying. “When am I coming home? I . . . I don’t know. I thought I’d give it some more time. What? Yeah, yeah, I know it’s been two years. But it still feels like yesterday to me.”
“If you would like to make a call, please deposit—” Lynn blinked and replaced her own phone receiver on its base. Then in a burst of inspiration, she pulled out two quarters from her purse, fed the pay phone, and dialed a number. A few seconds later, Pastor Gentry’s voice mail beeped into her ear.
He must be out of the office . . . I should try his cell number . . .
She fished two more quarters from her purse, but before she could deposit them she heard the mystery man hanging up his phone and quickly walking away.
No!
She’d wanted to call Pastor Gentry, explain her situation, and ask his advice. Should she introduce herself?
But now, she had no choice but to follow the fast-walking man, watching as he boarded the Silver Star train. Lynn glanced at the electronic arrivals/departures board and saw that the Silver Star was headed for Savannah, Georgia. She still hadn’t gotten a look at the man’s face, and to be this close to him . . . well, she just
had
to know what he looked like! Of course, there was one way to do that . . .
That’s crazy . . .
“All aboard! All aboard! Silver Star Express to Savannah will be leaving in five minutes,” came the announcement over the public-address system.
In seconds, Lynn made her decision. It was crazy, but she was absolutely positive she knew that voice. When she had been blind, her heightened sense of hearing had enabled her not only to hear voices better, but also to hear the rise, fall, and pitch of the human voice better. She knew the same man who had laid hands on her eyes was now on that train.
“May I help you?” Loretta asked, peering at her with curious eyes. No doubt it was because she’d seen Lynn at this ticket counter with Evangelist Barbara only moments earlier.
“Yes,” Lynn replied, reaching into her purse and retrieving her Visa card. “I’d like to purchase a ticket for the Silver Star.”
“O-kaay,” Loretta said, still looking at her curiously. “You want to take a round trip to Savannah?”
Oh, God . . . this is crazy . . .
Lynn thought, hesitating for a moment. But then she remembered the wonderful feeling of being outside Hope Springs Church, finally able to see after being blind for seven weeks. And it was because
this
man had helped her.
“Yes,” she finally breathed. “That’s exactly what I want to do.”
T
HE MAN GAZED OUT
the train’s small window and let out a long sigh. Summer was giving way to autumn, as the leaves began changing colors and the sun now cast longer shadows earlier in the evening. He faintly heard the last call for passengers to board over the public-address system, but his mind was a million miles away.
Nina . . .
She had loved the outdoors as much as he had, if not even more. Their ranch house had been spread out over ten acres of northern Louisiana real estate, nestled among grass and trees stretching as far as the eye could see. And though the property had been constructed with a design suited for raising animals, neither he, Pop, nor Nina was especially fond of cattle-raising.
“This land is just God’s gift to our family,” she was now saying in his dreams, sipping a glass of lemonade outside on their deck, watching the sun dip down in the western sky. “A place for you, me, and all the children we’re going to have.”
“Are you ready for that?” he asked. “Motherhood, I mean.”
Nina turned to face him. The backlit glow from the sunset beautifully framed her features and figure in an angelic glow. “Oh, yes. I’ve been thinking about being a mother for a long time. There’s nothing more that I want than to raise a family here, with you.”
In his mind, he could see her, touch her, taste her. At that moment, he could almost
smell
her, given how real she was to him. He leaned his head back against the headrest, not wanting this dream to end.
However he instantly became aware that someone was standing over him.
A fellow passenger
,he thought with irritation, because it meant he would have to prematurely end his dream with Nina. Opening his eyes, he nearly fainted, as none other than Nina stood there, smiling at him.
Oh my God . . .
“Um . . . excuse me, sir?” Nina was saying. “I’m sorry to trouble you, but . . .”
He blinked. Why didn’t Nina know who he was?
And then it hit him—the face was the same, but the voice was different. It was a voice he’d heard somewhere before. It was the voice belonging to the woman he’d prayed for outside Hope Springs Church at that healing crusade.
“. . . as I was saying, I’m sorry to trouble you, but I saw you—well, actually I heard your voice—in the station, and . . .”
“Wait a minute,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “You followed me onto the
train
?”
“Well no, well . . . yes, but I just . . .” Lynn looked away for a second, her fingers fidgeting with the leather strap on her purse. “I . . . just wanted to meet you. What you did at Hope Springs was . . . well, you changed my life. But you just vanished afterward, without anybody knowing who you were. When I heard your voice talking on that pay phone a few minutes ago, I . . . well, I know it sounds crazy, but I had to meet you. Do you have any idea what it feels like to be blind for seven weeks?”
The man looked away for a moment, shaking his head. Comprehending the craziness of all this was too much for him. “No, I don’t know what it feels like to be blind for seven weeks. But you probably don’t know what it feels like to be dead for two years.”
“I’m sorry?”
He waved his hand dismissively. “Forget I said that.” He sighed. “It doesn’t matter anymore.” He looked in her eyes, the eyes of a woman he’d once pledged undying love to.
How can this not be Nina standing in front of me?
“So . . . you just
bought
a ticket to Savannah? Just to meet me?”
Lynn smiled sheepishly. “That’s what my Visa statement is going to say.”
“But you’re looking at a four-hour round trip . . . What are you going . . .” His words trailed off as he noticed her looking at the empty seat next to him.
“Do you mind?” Lynn asked.
He shook his head.
Lynn sat down. A final whistle sounded as the train’s wheels began turning along the tracks.
“Why don’t you want anyone to know who you are?” Lynn asked.
He continued staring out the window. As the train increased speed, the multicolored leaves on the trees and the buildings merged, forming one big blur.
“It’s just better that way,” he finally said. “Sometimes, things that are dead should stay buried.”
LYNN HAD COUNSELED
many as a full-time minister, yet she’d never encountered anyone as vague and seemingly complex as this man, for whom she
still
didn’t have a name. She took it as a good sign that he hadn’t objected to her sitting beside him, or even boarding the train in the first place. But what was she supposed to do over the next two hours?
Lord, help me to minister to him with Your love and compassion . . .
“Can I ask your name?” she ventured, figuring this to be as good a starting place as any. The man continued staring out his window, either ignoring her or choosing not to answer.
“Um . . . listen, if you’re uncomfortable talking with me, or if I’ve offended you in any way, just—”
“Chance,” he interrupted.
“I-I’m sorry?”
“No, that’s my name. Chance Howard.”
“Oh. Oh, well, Chance . . . it’s nice to finally meet you. I’d just like you to know how grateful I am that you prayed over me at that healing crusade. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he replied, turning away from the window and looking into her eyes.
Lynn blinked. “You’ve prayed for many people to be healed of all sorts of things. Where do you get that kind of faith?”
Chance looked back out the window. “I just do what the Bible says I can do. It’s more a principle of obedience than faith.”
“Obedience? As in God . . . has
instructed
you to do this?”
“Something like that.”
“I always hear of Christians talking of having the same power that raised Jesus Christ from the dead living inside them, but not many seem to be walking in the fullness of that power. I get the feeling that you’re different.”
Chance was quiet for nearly a minute. “Salvation is free,” he finally replied, “but everything else in God comes with a price—the level of anointing a believer operates in is equal to the level he or she has sacrificed for it. A price has to be paid.”
Lynn was about to ask something else, but she sensed that Chance was not yet through talking.
“When you start talking about possessing that power,” he continued, “having what the disciples had in the book of Acts—you have to realize that those disciples gave their
lives
for Christ. Not only did they forsake all to follow Jesus around for three years, but virtually everyone became a martyr for the early church. A sacrifice on that level . . . well, it’s no wonder that sick people were healed just passing by Peter’s shadow.”
“You’re absolutely right,” Lynn agreed. “That makes me think about the dynamic the apostle Paul writes of in the third chapter of Philippians—knowing Christ not only in the power of His resurrection, but in the fellowship of His sufferings. You’re . . . um . . . you’re saying that you’ve paid a price to have that healing anointing?”
Chance, still looking out his window, nodded. Lynn opened her mouth to ask what that price had been, before having second thoughts about prying into his personal life.
What am I doing here, Lord?
Not that she needed to ask God such a question. She was here because she, too, wanted to possess a level of anointing or faith or healing or
whatever
it was Chance had that she didn’t. And why shouldn’t she? She had heard what Dr. Winthrop and all those other medical experts had said—that she would never see again. But look at God!
“Chance, would I be prying too much if I asked what that sacrifice was that you paid?”
“Yes,” he answered.
“Oh. Oh . . . I’m sorry. I just thought—”
“But that doesn’t mean I won’t answer the question.” He turned from the window to look directly at Lynn. “The more important question is this—are
you
ready to hear what I have to tell you?”
T
RAVIS, WHADDYA GOT?”
For once, Travis didn’t care about Ryman Wells’s gruff voice as he proudly strutted up to his editor’s desk. With a flourish, he whipped out a five-by-eight-inch photograph from his folder and slid it across the desk’s glass surface. His old college roommate had done an excellent job enhancing the video image of the mystery man.
“What’s this?” Ryman barked.
The cover of tomorrow’s newspaper, you arrogant, little . . .
“The mystery man who’s been linked to those Sumter healings,” Travis answered.
“Is that right?” Ryman carefully studied the photograph through his squinty eyes. “How do you know?”
“Three solid eyewitnesses at Five Points Diner say it’s him, as well as the pastor of that church where those healing services were held.” Travis neglected to mention that his sister Andrea had also positively identified the man as the one who’d prayed for Eddie. In the first article, Eddie had only been mentioned as a “boy born deaf with deformed ankle bones.” Travis wasn’t sure if he was flirting with a conflict-of-interest issue by being so closely related to one of the people who’d been healed, but that wasn’t the main point. The main point, at least from his perspective, was that he was no longer Ryman Wells’s whipping boy.
Ryman abruptly cleared his throat. “Well, well. You’ve been doing some good work lately, Travis. Some real good work. Piersall’s been telling me the feedback from the original article on this has been impressive. Seems all sorts of people want to know who this man is.”
Ryman was speaking of Franklin Piersall, the editor in chief, and the main person to be in good graces with if one ever desired to move up the
State
’s pecking order.
“I assume you got a story to go with this picture?” Ryman asked.
Travis smiled and produced two pages from his folder. Ryman read over the article and nodded his head. “I don’t know what you’ve been doing, Travis, but you keep it up. I’m sure we can get this picture on tomorrow’s front page, with the story on Metro’s front page. Real good work.”
The large smile on Travis’s face stayed put. If only his family could see the black sheep now.
THE OLD FRAMED PORTRAITS
hanging along the wall were not arranged in any particular order. But Bennett Howard wasn’t concerned about aesthetics or decoration. Instead, his attention was for the young boy posing in all the pictures. Gazing at them and wistfully longing for days gone by brought tears to the old man’s eyes. They always did when he looked at these pictures.