this new role. But I didn’t have the heart to turn them away. I thought,
Maybe God is helping people through me, maybe this is why I am on this earth
. And I found that, somehow, my words had the power to help people solve their problems. When people spoke to me, they felt understood. Maybe it was just because I listened.
“Several months after I saw Allison, a couple who had traveled from several towns away brought their autistic son Morgan to me. I was reluctant, but agreed to spend time with him, though I was not sure how I could help the child. In my heart I knew I hadn’t healed Allison, even if she had convinced herself and others that I had. While I did not mind counseling people who sought my advice, I did not want them to be deceived into thinking that I could heal their sick. But the couple seemed so desperate, so needy, I couldn’t say no.”
Juno had stuck both his hands in his pockets and had turned his eyes toward the ground. He wore a confused and sad expression, as if he still didn’t quite believe what had happened to him. He seemed to be offering the story to her, not quite expecting her to make sense of the events as they had played out, not quite able to make sense of them himself.
“I brought him into the church recreation room wherecatechism classes were held while his parents waited, praying in the church. The boy sat on a chair silent and perfectly motionless, smelling lightly of soap and talcum powder. I touched his hair, which had been close-cropped for the summer months. It felt like the bristles of a brush, hard and fuzzy at the same time.
“Thirty minutes passed. The boy was a locked box. Whatever was happening inside his head, there was no energy leaking out for me to feel or recognize.
The boy’s soul is on inside out
, I thought;
he’s sealed inside himself
. I had the sense that Morgan’s life was playing on a movie screen inside his head, two-dimensional and distant. Morgan was a witness to what went on around him but could not participate.
“Suddenly, while I was speaking to him, telling him the story of Noah’s Ark, the child issued a brief, blood-curdling scream. Then he sat still again, as if he had never opened his mouth. He frightened me and I moved away from him and began to play my guitar, not knowing what else to do.
“After a full hour, I took Morgan back out to his parents. I told them I didn’t think I had helped their son. They thanked me for my efforts and left solemn and disappointed.
“As I heard them drive away, I felt angry with myself for not being able to reach the boy, for being so inept in the face of Morgan’s obvious need. I wondered if it was God’s intention for Morgan to remain as he was, or if I had failed in a task set before me.
“But several weeks after Morgan’s visit, the rumor spread throughout the congregation that I had healed the autistic child. It was said that four days after his visit, Morgan began talking and interacting like a normal child. I wanted to believe them but I knew in my heart that it wasn’t true. I tried to find out Morgan’s last name so that I could call his parents and see if what people were telling me was true but no one seemed to know them. Whenpeople asked about it, I replied, I did not heal that boy. If he grew better, it was God’s will.
“But my replies were interpreted as modesty, as a deference to God,” he said, finishing his story, “and I found that no matter what protestations I made, I could not move people from what they wanted to believe. Even the truth could not diminish their faith in me.”
“But then people lost interest when the boy you visited in the hospital died hours later from a failed transplant.”
“So you already know all of this?” he said, clearing his throat. And for the first time since she arrived, he seemed uneasy, began unbuttoning and buttoning again the cuff of his immaculately cleaned and pressed denim shirt.
“What time was it when you found the dog?”
Maybe God is helping people through me, maybe this is why I am on this earth
. And I found that, somehow, my words had the power to help people solve their problems. When people spoke to me, they felt understood. Maybe it was just because I listened.
“Several months after I saw Allison, a couple who had traveled from several towns away brought their autistic son Morgan to me. I was reluctant, but agreed to spend time with him, though I was not sure how I could help the child. In my heart I knew I hadn’t healed Allison, even if she had convinced herself and others that I had. While I did not mind counseling people who sought my advice, I did not want them to be deceived into thinking that I could heal their sick. But the couple seemed so desperate, so needy, I couldn’t say no.”
Juno had stuck both his hands in his pockets and had turned his eyes toward the ground. He wore a confused and sad expression, as if he still didn’t quite believe what had happened to him. He seemed to be offering the story to her, not quite expecting her to make sense of the events as they had played out, not quite able to make sense of them himself.
“I brought him into the church recreation room wherecatechism classes were held while his parents waited, praying in the church. The boy sat on a chair silent and perfectly motionless, smelling lightly of soap and talcum powder. I touched his hair, which had been close-cropped for the summer months. It felt like the bristles of a brush, hard and fuzzy at the same time.
“Thirty minutes passed. The boy was a locked box. Whatever was happening inside his head, there was no energy leaking out for me to feel or recognize.
The boy’s soul is on inside out
, I thought;
he’s sealed inside himself
. I had the sense that Morgan’s life was playing on a movie screen inside his head, two-dimensional and distant. Morgan was a witness to what went on around him but could not participate.
“Suddenly, while I was speaking to him, telling him the story of Noah’s Ark, the child issued a brief, blood-curdling scream. Then he sat still again, as if he had never opened his mouth. He frightened me and I moved away from him and began to play my guitar, not knowing what else to do.
“After a full hour, I took Morgan back out to his parents. I told them I didn’t think I had helped their son. They thanked me for my efforts and left solemn and disappointed.
“As I heard them drive away, I felt angry with myself for not being able to reach the boy, for being so inept in the face of Morgan’s obvious need. I wondered if it was God’s intention for Morgan to remain as he was, or if I had failed in a task set before me.
“But several weeks after Morgan’s visit, the rumor spread throughout the congregation that I had healed the autistic child. It was said that four days after his visit, Morgan began talking and interacting like a normal child. I wanted to believe them but I knew in my heart that it wasn’t true. I tried to find out Morgan’s last name so that I could call his parents and see if what people were telling me was true but no one seemed to know them. Whenpeople asked about it, I replied, I did not heal that boy. If he grew better, it was God’s will.
“But my replies were interpreted as modesty, as a deference to God,” he said, finishing his story, “and I found that no matter what protestations I made, I could not move people from what they wanted to believe. Even the truth could not diminish their faith in me.”
“But then people lost interest when the boy you visited in the hospital died hours later from a failed transplant.”
“So you already know all of this?” he said, clearing his throat. And for the first time since she arrived, he seemed uneasy, began unbuttoning and buttoning again the cuff of his immaculately cleaned and pressed denim shirt.
“What time was it when you found the dog?”
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