Tonight’s lesson for the Alpha Sprouts is called, “Does God Heal Today?”
Alpha Dude will make his grand entrance wearing a stethoscope and ask the kids “Hey Dudes! Remember me? What’s my name?”
“Nuh Uh. Not today. Today I’m Doctor Alpha Dude! See this here heartbeat listener thingy? That makes me a doctor, right?”
Of course they know better and we have some fun talking about that.
In all this time I’ve been the Alpha Dude, I have learned that most children under the age of eight have a rather difficult time pronouncing the word “STETHOSCOPE”. I’ve heard a lot of admirable attempts, but very few kids can say that particular word. For that matter, I know a lot of adults that can’t pronounce it either!
From what I can figure is that by the time a child sees one of those heartbeat listener thingies, it is too late to get all the words out.
“Oh, Hi, Doctor. Is that your stetosco…..Ooohh that’s Cold!”
We have a lot of fun, but eventually I get them turned back towards the lesson.
We talk about how God heals people and that the Bible has a lot of stories about healing and miracles. Then I ask them if they know of anyone who has been healed in such a way that would be known as a miracle.
Then I remembered a story about something that happened to me a long time ago.
(I know, I’ve always got a story, huh? So why should this time be any different?)
When I was 19, I worked as a lifeguard at a local public pool. After work one day my mother, little sister and I went to the airport to pick up my Dad. His car had broken down as he arrived at the airport a couple of days earlier as he was leaving on a business trip. He had asked me to take a look at his car and see if I could get it running before his plane landed.
We found his car right where he said it would be. I got out of my mother’s big International Scout II (a four-wheel drive tank of a car), opened the hood of Dad’s car and went to work. Before crawling under the car to check something, my mother and I had agreed she should park her Scout in the empty space next to Dad’s car.
I crawled under the car and started looking for reasons why his car’s engine may have stopped running. My legs were sticking out from under the front of the car.
I was wearing, over my swimsuit, a pair of flared-bottom jeans.
(It was the early 80’s and I just couldn’t find any bell-bottom jeans to wear).
I couldn’t see what was going on, but I heard my mother start up the Scout and assumed she was backing into the empty space next to Dad’s car. I felt my little sister step on my pant leg. Before I could yell for her to “Get of my le….” the rapidly increasing pressure on my lower right leg indicated to me that this just might not be my little sister standing on my pant leg.
I found out later that my mother, being as she is completely, totally and legally blonde*, decided to drive down closer to the terminal so we would be easier for Dad to find.
Dad parked the car right here.
Dad told US where to find it.
I do believe Dad knew exactly where we were!
Before I could get any words out to tell my sister to get off my leg……CRUNCH!
My own mother had just run over my right leg with an American Made, Four Wheel Drive TRUCK! This truck was built back when they still had steel dashboards!
It was kind of heavy.
What began as “Get off my le….” Came out as “AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!!”
“Oh my! What was that?”
“You just ran over Alpha Dude’s leg!”
So she backed the truck up. Crunch. Again.
Lying there in excruciating pain, my mother, bless her little blonde* heart, got out of her Scout and ran over to where I was writhing in pain.
“Are you okay?”
“No. You just ran me over with your truck!”
“Oh son, I’m so sorry. Here, let me help you out of there.”
So, she grabbed my leg and started trying to pull me out from under the car.
”AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!! That’s the leg you just ran over!”
So she let go.
I then curled up into a ball underneath that car, afraid for my life.
It took her a while, but my mother was finally able to coax me out from under the car. I can understand something like this happening, but …by my own Mother??
As you may have guessed, my leg was broken. Badly.
And it hurt like crazy.
Then, while leaning against the side of the car, legs outstretched in front of me, my mother knelt down. With tears streaming down her face, she placed her hands on my crushed lower right leg. She closed her eyes, bowed her head and prayed in a loud and authoritative voice,
“Most Gracious Lord God. In Jesus’ name, please heal my son!”
It still hurt.
Just about that time my Dad came walking up to where we all were, crouched by the side of the car.
“What’s going on?”
“Mom ran over Alpha Dude with the truck.”
Dad’s car still didn’t work so we all loaded up in the Scout and drove to the hospital.
When we got there, Dad ran inside to get help while mom helped me out of the Scout.
Before the nurse could reach us with a wheelchair, I walked into the emergency room.
On my own.
The doctor examined me and was told, by everyone, what had happened. He said he also drove a Scout and was quite sure my leg was broken. That’s when the nurse told him, “Doctor, he walked in here.”
They X-Rayed my leg and the pictures showed absolutely nothing but healthy bone. Not even a crack, and there were no visible bruises. My leg was warm and throbbing, but other than a hole in my sock and the skin missing on my ankle from where it was ground into the pavement, my leg was fine.
I was told to keep my leg iced and elevated and to not go to work for a few days.
I went to work the next day anyway. Other than being a little sore, my leg was fine.
After a few days, I wasn’t limping and the scrape on my ankle was healing.
God is Good. Jesus is Lord.
And yes, my friends, God does still heal today.
I am walking proof of it.
I still have the scar.
Walk in love.
*(Please forward all anti-blonde-joke hate mail to the attention of Alpha Dude, in care of this blog.)