The God Who Hears

I don’t remember his name.  Seems like something I would have wanted to find out after the fact, but all I can recall is that he was just another Indian man who heard that a pastor and his seven American friends had come to call.
 
We had just finished consuming another large meal of chapati, rice, and chicken curry while swatting flies away from our faces and food.  Visitors from the village were in and out as usual, coming to gawk at the strange, white females that had shown up an hour or two ago. 
 

 
“It’s time to pray.”  Our translator Isaac says these words often, as prayers of blessing and healing are the predominant part of our ministry this month.  We lay our hands on recipients of the aforementioned blessing and/or healing, whisper a few words to the God who thankfully knows a lot more about these people than we ever will, and they walk away with a smile and a head bobble.
 

 
Those are the words that beckoned us toward the center of the porch.  Surrounded by men and saree-clad women, we knelt down to meet this man who sat on the ground before us. 
 
What does he need prayer for?
 
He had a stroke.  His speech is slurred, and his walking is labored.
 
Alright. 
 
Healing prayer number 1,000. 
 
Here we go.
 
We laid our hands on him and talked to Jesus all at once.  “God, make his legs work, in the Name of Jesus Christ.  Please heal him.  Please give us the faith…” 
 
The final “amen” was given a minute or so later, and he stood up to leave.  As we watched him drag his ravaged body to the courtyard gate, it was obvious that nothing had changed.
 
But I couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe there was more to be done.
 
“Hey, Isaac.  Should we pray again?”
 
“Do you want to pray again?” he asked.
 
I nodded.
 
We grabbed the guy a chair and had him sit back down, not without some effort.
 
Alright. 
 
Healing prayer number 1,001.
 
Here we go.
 
The laying on of hands and collective murmur ensued once again.  This time, I prayed with passion and conviction, choosing to actually believe in the God of angel armies.  The God who sees.  The God of miracles.
 
Lord, we believe.  Heal our unbelief.
 
We stood back to assess the situation once again.  Isaac pulled up a chair right in front of the man, sat down, and leaned forward as he began the interrogation.  “What is my name?  My name is Isaac.  What is it?”
 
The man uttered a few responses, and Isaac looked at us.  “Before, he couldn't speak clearly, but now we can understand him.  His speech is healed.”
 
What?
 
Tears sprang to my eyes. 
 
“How are his legs feeling?”
 
Isaac beckoned the man to get up and walk.  He stood, forcing his feet to fulfill the  purpose for which they were created.  One step at a time. 
 
It all looked the same at first.  A few more steps in, though, something changed.  He wasn’t limping, struggling through every move forward.  His gait was slow, but… normal.
 
Well done, sir.
 
Your faith has made you well. 
 
Or maybe it was mine.
 
And the tears came.  I looked at my teammates and laughed.
 
“He hears!”
 
When I decided I couldn’t hold it together anymore, I went inside.  Time to process.  To grasp what had just happened… after waiting for such a long, long time.
 
You heard.
 
You answered.
 
Thank You, thank You, thank You.