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Authors: James L. Rubart
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it.”
Tori kissed Corin’s cheek and scuttled into the house.
Hot . . . cold. Doesn’t want to talk about it, then willing to talk about it. Then prickle city again. What did she have against religion? Those kind of prickles didn’t come from nowhere. The more someone railed against something, the greater the odds that the something burned them at one time. What scars of religion did Tori carry under her usually perky personality?
She returned with the cheese and crackers. “I have a question about your healing chair.” The sadness had been replaced by a curiosity, a longing in her eyes for something.
“Okay.”
“Have you sat in it yet?”
“Yes.”
“Did it heal you?” Her eyes made him imagine her as a little girl in a pretty dress, traipsing off to Sunday school.
“The only injuries I’ve ever gotten are minor bumps and bruises, and I’ve never had a chronic illness, so I’m not sure what it would heal me of.”
“What were you thinking you wanted to be healed of when you sat in it?”
“You should do that?”
“I’ll bet if you ask that Brittan kid, he’d say he was wishing he could be healed of his asthma when he was sitting in your chair.” Tori brushed her hair back from her face. “That’s what happened in the Bible. I remember there were these guys who begged Jesus to stop as He walked down the road, and He turned to them and said, ‘What do you want?’ and they said, ‘We want to see.’ So it makes sense that you should know what you want to be healed off when you sit in the chair. You need to believe it’s going to happen.”
He smiled. “It almost makes me wish I had something to be healed so I could test the chair that way on myself.”
Tori arched an eyebrow but said nothing.
“Do you want to elaborate?”
She shrugged. “No.”
“Please elaborate.”
“Well, who’s to say the chair can’t work on mental conditions as well as physical?”
He smirked at her. “You’re saying I’m mental?”
“Yes.”
“Thanks.”
Tori took his hands. “If I’m setting my feet on Fantasy Island for a moment, yes, I would love to think your sitting in a chair or lying on a bed or swinging from a rope would help rid you of some of those fears swirling around in your conscious and subconscious mind. Wouldn’t you?”
“I told you about those?”
“Yep.”
Corin popped a piece of Brie into his mouth and watched a Flicker dart back and forth between two limber pine trees.
Yes. He would like to be healed. More than she could imagine.
But Brittan’s healing was physical, not emotional.
Tomorrow he’d call a few local churches. See if they knew anything. Also, do a little Internet research on the healing powers of religious artifacts as well as what the Bible said about healing.
And maybe he’d take another ride in the chair.
CHAPTER 13
A rap on the door of Mark Jefferies’s den made him jerk.
“Hey, honey, dinner is almost ready.” Mark’s wife stood in the doorway smiling, her black hair cascading over her shoulders.
“How soon is soon? Can you give it to me in minutes, please?”
Irritation flitted across her features. Mark thought about pointing it out, then decided to ignore it. Give her grace. Grace was always a good choice.
“Ten or fifteen minutes.”
“Which one?” Mark turned back to his computer. “Ten or fifteen?”
“Fifteen.”
“Perfect. Thanks.” He looked up and winked at her. “You’re awesome.”
She smiled and turned to go.
“Hey, I almost forgot.” Mark leaned back, hands cocked behind his head. “ Sports Illustrated’s swimsuit issue should be hitting our mailbox in the next few days. I don’t need that garbage filling my brain.”
“True.”
“So I need you to make sure you pick up the mail for the rest of this week, and when it gets here, burn it or toss it, whatever.”
“A lot of men would take that mag—”
“I’m not a lot of men.” Mark picked up his remote, turned on the TV, flipped to ESPN,
Tori kissed Corin’s cheek and scuttled into the house.
Hot . . . cold. Doesn’t want to talk about it, then willing to talk about it. Then prickle city again. What did she have against religion? Those kind of prickles didn’t come from nowhere. The more someone railed against something, the greater the odds that the something burned them at one time. What scars of religion did Tori carry under her usually perky personality?
She returned with the cheese and crackers. “I have a question about your healing chair.” The sadness had been replaced by a curiosity, a longing in her eyes for something.
“Okay.”
“Have you sat in it yet?”
“Yes.”
“Did it heal you?” Her eyes made him imagine her as a little girl in a pretty dress, traipsing off to Sunday school.
“The only injuries I’ve ever gotten are minor bumps and bruises, and I’ve never had a chronic illness, so I’m not sure what it would heal me of.”
“What were you thinking you wanted to be healed of when you sat in it?”
“You should do that?”
“I’ll bet if you ask that Brittan kid, he’d say he was wishing he could be healed of his asthma when he was sitting in your chair.” Tori brushed her hair back from her face. “That’s what happened in the Bible. I remember there were these guys who begged Jesus to stop as He walked down the road, and He turned to them and said, ‘What do you want?’ and they said, ‘We want to see.’ So it makes sense that you should know what you want to be healed off when you sit in the chair. You need to believe it’s going to happen.”
He smiled. “It almost makes me wish I had something to be healed so I could test the chair that way on myself.”
Tori arched an eyebrow but said nothing.
“Do you want to elaborate?”
She shrugged. “No.”
“Please elaborate.”
“Well, who’s to say the chair can’t work on mental conditions as well as physical?”
He smirked at her. “You’re saying I’m mental?”
“Yes.”
“Thanks.”
Tori took his hands. “If I’m setting my feet on Fantasy Island for a moment, yes, I would love to think your sitting in a chair or lying on a bed or swinging from a rope would help rid you of some of those fears swirling around in your conscious and subconscious mind. Wouldn’t you?”
“I told you about those?”
“Yep.”
Corin popped a piece of Brie into his mouth and watched a Flicker dart back and forth between two limber pine trees.
Yes. He would like to be healed. More than she could imagine.
But Brittan’s healing was physical, not emotional.
Tomorrow he’d call a few local churches. See if they knew anything. Also, do a little Internet research on the healing powers of religious artifacts as well as what the Bible said about healing.
And maybe he’d take another ride in the chair.
CHAPTER 13
A rap on the door of Mark Jefferies’s den made him jerk.
“Hey, honey, dinner is almost ready.” Mark’s wife stood in the doorway smiling, her black hair cascading over her shoulders.
“How soon is soon? Can you give it to me in minutes, please?”
Irritation flitted across her features. Mark thought about pointing it out, then decided to ignore it. Give her grace. Grace was always a good choice.
“Ten or fifteen minutes.”
“Which one?” Mark turned back to his computer. “Ten or fifteen?”
“Fifteen.”
“Perfect. Thanks.” He looked up and winked at her. “You’re awesome.”
She smiled and turned to go.
“Hey, I almost forgot.” Mark leaned back, hands cocked behind his head. “ Sports Illustrated’s swimsuit issue should be hitting our mailbox in the next few days. I don’t need that garbage filling my brain.”
“True.”
“So I need you to make sure you pick up the mail for the rest of this week, and when it gets here, burn it or toss it, whatever.”
“A lot of men would take that mag—”
“I’m not a lot of men.” Mark picked up his remote, turned on the TV, flipped to ESPN,
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