Rev. Ron Sumners
October 9, 1994
Wallace was an important man. He was the type man that was asked to have the prayer at the local high school football game or be president of the Lions Club. He wore a title and a clerical collar. He had soft hands because his work had always been cerebral instead of manual. He had a nice office in the church. His secretary was a bit stale but he wasn't. He had a warm smile that melted your apprehension as you walked in his office door. He sat in a leather, swivel chair and had diplomas on the wall. He had a way of listening that made you willing to tell him things that you had never told anyone else.
Therefore, he always had a steady stream of those coming to him for counseling. He was a good man. His marriage wasn't all it could be, but it was better than most. His name was respected. He was a fifteen handicap golfer and the church bought him a membership at the local country club to honor his 20 year anniversary as pastor of the church.
People recognized him in public and flocked to hear him on Easter and Christmas, even if not the rest of the year. His retirement account was growing and he was less than a decade from settling down to a life of leisure, good books and plenty of time to lower his golf score. If he committed a sin, no one knew it. If he had a fear, no one heard it, which may have been the greatest sin of all in his life. Wallace genuinely loved people. This morning, however, he does not want people. He wants to be alone. He tells his secretary that he is not taking any more calls for the rest of the day. She thinks little of it because he needs time to work on his Sunday Sermon.
He has been on the phone all morning and needs time to study. He has been on the phone all morning and he does need time, not to study, but to weep. Wallace takes a look at the photo that sits on the credenza behind his mahogany desk. Through watery eyes he looks at the picture of his twelve year old daughter; braces, pigtails, freckles. She is the reflection of his wife; blue eyes, brown hair and a cute pug nose. The only thing that she had gotten from him was his heart. She owns his heart and he has no intention of asking for it to be returned. She isn't his only child, but she is his last. She is his only daughter. He had built a fence of protection around his little girl.
Maybe that's why these last few days had been so difficult; that fence was crumbling and he could do nothing about it. She had come from school feverish and irritable. His wife put her to bed thinking that she had a touch of the flu. During the night she got sicker and the fever rose. The next morning, they had rushed her to the hospital. The doctors were puzzled. They could not discover the problem. They knew only one thing for sure; she was sick and getting sicker.
Wallace had never known such helplessness. He did not know how to handle his pain. He was so accustomed to being strong that he did not know how to be weak. He assured everyone that his daughter was fine. He assured everyone that God was a great God. He assured everyone, except himself. Inside, his emotions were a mighty river and the dam of self-control that had always kept them in check was about to burst. It was a call from the doctor that morning that had finally broken him. The doctor said, "She is in a coma." Wallace had hung up the phone and asked the secretary to hold his calls. He reached over and took the picture from the credenza and held it in his hands. And the words that were swirling in his head like a Merry-go-round come out of his mouth and he spoke aloud, "It's not fair, it's not fair!" He held the picture to his face and he wept. Nothing is right about it ... nothing! Why a twelve year old girl? Why his daughter?
His face hardens as he looks out the window at the grey sky. ''Why don't you just take me ", he offers to God. He walks over to the table in his office and takes some tissue from the box that he keeps for his counselees. He looks out the window to the courtyard of the church. He sees two old men sitting on concrete benches, deep in conversation. And Wallace thinks, "Don't they know that my daughter is dying? How can they act as if nothing is wrong? Everything is wrong"
He remembers when his daughter came by the church in the Spring on her way home from school. He loved to see her. She always stopped in the courtyard and chased the pigeons. He would hear her and go to the window to watch her for those few moments before she saw him. He would watch her walk a tightrope around the rock wall. He would watch her pick a wildflower out of the grass. He would watch her spin around and around and around until she would fall on her back and watch the clouds spin in the sky.
"O, my princess", he would say. Then he would stack his papers and his headaches on the desk and go down to meet her, and all the headaches disappeared.
But today was not Spring time and his daughter was not in the courtyard. It was Winter and his little girl was nearly dead. It was two old men sitting on the bench not his "Princess". Suddenly, a third man enters the courtyard and speaks to the other two and the three quickly leave. " I wonder where they are going in such a hurry ", Wallace says to himself. And then he remembers, ''The Teacher is coming to town today". He had almost forgotten; Jesus was arriving today.
As he had left the house this morning a neighbor had asked Wallace if he were going to see Jesus. Wallace had inwardly scoffed at the idea but he answered, ''No, I'm too busy today." He knew that even on a slow day he would not go and see an itinerant preacher, especially this one.
The journals from the State Office had branded this guy a maverick. Some even said he was crazy. But the crowds hung around him like he was God's gift to humanity. The neighbor said, "I'm going". Wallace thought, ''Yeah, I'm sure you are. You probably also read the National Enquirer!"
''They say he can heal", he recalled the neighbor saying. Wallace stood up straight and then he relaxed and said aloud to himself, "Don't be foolish!" He had done a lecture at the Seminary just a few months earlier and had told his audience that faith healers are an insult to our profession. He had declared that they are parasites of the people, charlatans of the church, prophets for profit. He had seen these guys on television with their double breasted suits, mannequin smiles and powered faces.
He shakes his head and walks back to his desk. He picks up the photograph of the child that is about to be taken from him and looks at his "Princess.'” ''They say he can heal", he says aloud. And Wallace begins to weigh the options. "If I go and am recognized I could lose my job, but if she dies and he could have done something. . .? " A man reaches a point where his desperation is a notch above his dignity. Wallace shrugs his shoulders and says, "What choice do I have?"
The events of that afternoon directed Wallace's life from that moment on and he told this story whenever he got the chance.
I circled the bus terminal three times before I found a place to park. Cold wind bit my ears as I fumbled through my pockets looking for parking meter change. I buttoned my overcoat up to the knot of my tie. I passed a pawn shop window and saw silverware in the window, probably some mother's last thing of value given to finance the wasted life of a child. I saw someone come out of a bar. A dozen or so teens in skin tight pants leaned against a building and stared at me. One flicked a cigarette butt at my feet. Three men in leather jackets and jeans warmed their hands over a fire in a 55 gallon drum. One of them chuckled as I walked by, "Lookie there, lookie there, we got us a poodle in the dog pound!" I didn't turn around, if he was talking to me I sure didn't want to know it. I felt awkward. It had been years since I had been to this side of town. I glanced over and saw my reflection in a store window; wool overcoat, grey suit, red silk tie, wing tip shoes, no wonder I was turning heads. The question was written in their eyes, "What brings Mr. White Collar down here across the tracks?"
The bus station was packed, I barely got through the door. When I got inside I couldn't have gotten out even if I had wanted to. Heads bobbed and ducked like corks in a lake. Everyone was trying to get across the room to where the de-boarding passengers entered the terminal. I managed to squeeze through ahead of them. They were just curious and wanted to see Jesus; I was desperate. As I reached the window I saw Him. He stood near the bus. He had only been able to advance a couple of strides against the wall of people pushing against Him. He looked far too normal. He wore a corduroy jacket, the kind with patches on the elbows. His slacks were not new but they were nice. He wore no tie. His hairline receded a bit before it came to a flow of brown curls. I couldn't hear His voice, but I could see His face. His eyebrows were bushy. He had a gleam in His eyes and a smile on His lips, as if He were watching you unwrap a birthday gift that He had just given you. He was different than what I had anticipated. I had to ask the lady next to me if it was Him. "Oh, yes", she said, "That's Him, that's Jesus."
He bent over for a moment and disappeared from view. He stood up holding a little toddler in His arms. With hands on the little boy's chest, He pushed him high into the air and smiled. He held him there and I noticed His hands; they were strong, slender and calloused. Someone had told me that He grew up on Sand Mountain , the son of an automobile mechanic.
He put the little boy down and began walking toward the door. I knew that if He entered the bus station I would never get to Him. I put my hands flat against the window pane and began inching along the window toward the door. People complained, but I pushed and moved anyway. When I got to the doorway, so did Jesus. Our eyes met and I froze. I guess I hadn't considered what I would say to Him when I actually saw Him. Maybe I thought He would somehow recognize me.
Maybe I thought He would ask me if there was anything He could do for me. In my mind words raced, "Oh, Sir, my daughter is sick and I thought you might say a prayer." But that's not how it came out. The words logjammed in my throat and I felt my eyes begin to water. My lips began to quiver and I felt my knees hit the concrete floor. And I said, "Oh, Sir, it's my daughter, my little girl, she is very sick. Could you please come and touch Her so she won't die?" And I regretted those words as soon as I said them. If He was a man, then I had asked the impossible, if He was more that a man, then what right did I have to make such a request? I didn’t dare look up; I was ashamed. I didn’t have the courage to raise my face. I guess He knew that I didn’t because He did it for me. I felt His fingers under my chin as He lifted my head. He did not raise it far because
He had knelt down in front of me Himself. I looked into His eyes and the gaze of that young preacher embraced this old pastor like the arms of an old friend. I knew then that I knew this man. Somewhere I had seen that look. I knew those eyes.
"Take me to her", He said. His hands moved under my arms and helped me to stand. "Where is your car", He said, "I don't have one". I grabbed His hand and began to fight a way through the crowd. It wasn't easy; with my free hand I parted people like I was parting stalks of com in a field. Faces whirled around us; young mothers wanting a blessing for their children, old faces with caved-in mouths wanting release from their pain. Suddenly, I lost His hand. It slipped from mine. I stopped and turned and saw Him looking into the crowd. The sudden stop had caused the crowd to hush. I noticed that His face had gone a bit pale. And He spoke as if speaking to Himself, "Someone touched me". He turned, slowly studying each face. And, for the life of me I couldn't tell if He was angry or delighted. He was looking for someone that he did not know, but knew that he would know them as soon as He saw them.
"I touched you", the voice-said. She was beside me and Jesus pivoted to look at her. "It was me", she said, "I'm sorry". The curtain of the crowd parted and put the girl on center stage. She was thin, almost frail. I could have wrapped my hand around her upper arm and touched my fingers and thumb together. Her skin was dark and her hair was in a hundred braids with beads at the end of each one. She was costless and she hugged her arms to herself, hands squeezing honey elbows as much out of fear as from the cold.
"Don't be afraid", Jesus assured her, "What's wrong?" And she replied, "Doctors say I'm gonna’ die. I got AIDS". Someone behind me gasped and the crowd moved back a step. But Jesus stepped toward her and said, "Tell me about it." She looked at Him and then around at the throng of people. "Well, Sir, I was out of money. I didn't have nowhere else to go or nothin' else to do, but . . . but." She looked at His eyes and, strangely, she began to smile as if someone had just whispered some good news in her ear. And I looked back at Jesus and He was smiling too. The two stood there and smiled at each other like the only two kids in class who knew the answer to the teacher's question. It was then that I saw the look again; the same look that only moments before had met me as I looked up from the pavement. That same look met this girl. Those same eyes that I knew I had seen before, I saw again. Where had I seen those eyes? I turned and I looked at the girl, and for a moment she looked at me. I wanted to say something to her. And I think she felt the same urge. We were so different, yet, suddenly, we had everything in common.
What a strange couple we were; she with her needle tracked arms and midnight lovers and I with my clean fingernails and sermon outlines. I had spent my life telling people not to be like her. She had spent her life avoiding hypocrites like me. But now we were thrust together against the enemy of death, desperately hoping that this country preacher could tie a knot in the end of our frazzled ropes so we could hang on. And then Jesus spoke and He said to the girl, "It is your faith that makes you whole. Now go and enjoy life." She resisted all efforts to hide her joy. She smiled, no, she glowed as she looked at Jesus. She jumped up, hugged Him and kissed Him on the cheek. The crowd laughed. Jesus blushed. And she disappeared.
I hadn't noticed, but while Jesus was speaking some men had worked their way into the crowd. They were standing by me and when I heard them speak I immediately recognized them as deacons from my church. One put his hand on my shoulder and said, "No need to bother this teacher anymore preacher; your daughter is dead." The words came to me like daggers into my heart. Jesus then looked at me and said, "Don't be afraid, Wallace, just trust me."
The next few moments were a blur of activity. We raced through the crowd and jumped into the car with the man who had brought the news and sped toward the hospital.
When we got there the waiting room was chaotic. Church members, neighbors and friends were already gathering. Several were weeping openly. My wife, seated in a chair, was pale and speechless. Her eyes were red and her hands were trembling as I took them in mine. She brushed away the tears from her eyes. The people came to comfort me. Jesus stood there in front of me. They stopped and starred at this stranger. "Why are you crying?", He asked, "She isn't dead. she's only asleep." The people were stunned. In fact, they were insulted. "Of all the insensitive things to say!", someone shouted, "Who does He think He is? Get Him out of here." But leaving was the last thing that Jesus had on His agenda. He turned and in a few seconds was standing in front of my daughter's hospital room.
He signaled for a few of us to follow, and we obeyed. Six of us stood at my daughter's bedside. Her face was already ashen. Her lips were dry and still. I touched her hand, it was cold. Before I could say anything, Jesus' hand was on mine. With the exception on one instant, He never took His eyes off my daughter. But during that instant, He looked at me. He looked at me with that same look, that same slight smile, that same sparkle in His eyes I had seen at the bus terminal, a look like He was giving another gift and couldn't wait to see the response. Then He said very softly, "Princess, time to get up." Her head turned slightly as if hearing a voice. Jesus stepped back. Her upper body leaned forward until she was sitting upright in the bed. Her eyes opened and she turned to me and said, "Hello Daddy". She put her bare feet on the floor and she stood.
No one moved as my wife and I watched our little girl walk toward us. We held her for what seemed like an eternity, half believing that it couldn't be true and half not wanting to know if it wasn't. But it was true. "You better give her something to eat", Jesus teased with a smile, "I'll bet she's starving to death."
He turned to leave. I touched His shoulder and said, "Let me return the favor. I'll introduce you to all the right people. I'll get you speaking engagements in all the right places." And He said, "Let's just keep this between us, OK?" Then He and His three friends left the room.
For weeks after that I was really puzzled. Of course, I was overjoyed, but my joy was peppered with mystery. Everywhere I went I saw His face. Even as I say this today, I can see His face; head cocked just a bit, tender sparkle of anticipation in his eyes. That look that said, "Come here, I have a secret I want to tell you." Now I know where I've seen that look before. In fact, I have seen it many times in my life.
I saw it in the eyes of a cancer patient that I visited. She was bald from chemo-therapy, sunken-eyed from her pain. Her skin was soft and her hand was honey. She recognized me when she awoke. She didn't even say, "Hello". Her eyes sparkled like I had seen in Jesus. She said, "Pastor, I'm ready to go."
I saw it last week as I spoke at a funeral. The widower, a wrinkled faced man with white hair and bifocals, did not weep like the others. In fact, at one point I think I saw him smile. I shook his hand afterwards and he exclaimed to me with that sparkle Jesus had, like he was sharing a wonderful secret, "Don't worry about me, Preacher". Then he motioned for me to lean forward and he whispered, "I know where she is."
But it was this morning that I saw it the clearest. I had wanted to ask her for days. This morning I did it. It was at the breakfast table; just the two of us; she with her cereal and I with my paper. I turned to my daughter and I asked her, "Princess?"
"Yes, daddy?" "What was it like?" "What, daddy?"
"While you were gone away, in the hospital. What was it like?"
She didn't say anything. She just turned her head slightly and looked out the window. Then she turned toward me and the sparkle was there in her eyes. She opened her mouth and then she closed it. Then she opened it again, "It's a secret, daddy, a secret too good for words!"
Peace where there should be pain; confidence in the midst of crisis; hope defying despair, that's what that look says. It is a look that knows the answer to the question asked by all of us: "Does death have the last word? And I can see the sparkle in the eyes of Jesus as He gives you your answer, "Not on your life. Not on your life!"
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