Two nights ago, we attended a prayer meeting for Titus in Alabama. There, a shift happened, and though I’ve been processing it, I haven’t yet committed it to my journal.
Grant is nestled in the Appalachian foothills, a place so thick with old-time religion that the car tires hum “Amazing Grace” when they roll over the highway’s rumble strips. I once tried to count the roadside churches between Muscle Shoals and Grant; I lost count somewhere in the hundreds.
Those foothills are thick with God.
On Sunday evening, we drive from the top of the mountain down and into the valley of Owens Cross Roads. As we descend the ridgeline into the valley, the Alabama countryside lies exposed, the chopped corn and cotton fields barren now. The hardwoods are still finishing their autumn disrobing, and straggling leaves are burnt shades of red, purple, and yellow. Farmhouses scatter across the valley below, and smoke billows from their chimneys. I imagine them as saints offering incense after the harvest.
The elders of my in-laws’ church had called Paul, asked him whether we’d carry Titus to the meeting house for a moment of special prayer. They are the good people of the Alabama valley, the good people of Owens Cross Roads, so Paul agreed.
I sit in the passenger seat on the way down the mountain, nerves fraying with every bump of the road. My palms sweat as I consider the many ways well-meaning men might put our faith on the spot.
At the church, we are ushered into a small conference room, and Amber gives a brief report. In layperson’s terms, she explains that the doctors at Mayo have discovered that Titus has esophageal issues and a brain malformation. They are still not quite sure of the cause of his sickness. The preacher is a small, round man, and he wears khakis and a modest blue blazer. He listens, head nodding, hands folded over his belly. He says, “We’d like to pray for him and anoint him with oil, if that would be okay.”
He reminds us that in the early church, the elders were admonished to anoint the sick with oil, to pray for healing (James 5:14). These good men of Owens Cross Roads take that admonishment to heart. They have sincere faces and their words are gentle. They are doing the best they know, but even still, my breath is starting to draw short and my forehead sweats.
The preacher reaches for a jug of oil, pours what seems like a quarter cup of it into his hand. These are kind hands, I know. And I doubt this oil is from the sale rack at the Piggly Wiggly. Even so, when we close our eyes for prayer, I am transported into the darker places. I can hear the sweet cicada song of that summer’s night long ago, feel the oil cross on my forehead, feel nothing of the Spirit at work, no sensation of the miraculous variety.
I remember the faith healer, the olive oil, the promise of faith healing. There is a swirling notion that this is somehow different, but I hear the whispers from the cave of the soul: “Where is your faith, boy? Where is your God?”
I want to vomit.
But here, before the complete unwinding, I hear the gentle call of God. “I was with you in the mesquite trees; I will never leave you. I will never leave Titus.”
Yes, God is in the room with us, with me, the preacher, and my Titus, whose hair and forehead are now slathered with olive oil.
My nerves begin to calm.
The preacher prays, “Lord, we do not know how or even if you will heal, but we beg you to respond. We are frail in our prayers. Please forgive us, and forgive all our sins as we forgive others. Amen.”
As we forgive others.
I think of the faith healer who attempted to barter for God’s healing with a little boy’s faith. I consider the lies that were injected into my young psyche, that God was neither present nor healing. His prayer was so different from that of the humble preacher at Owens Cross Roads. The faith healer was full of spiritual bravado, without regard for mystery, humility, or forgiveness. He offered up a sacrifice of a child’s faith, as if the whipping up of good courage was the impetus of the miraculous hand of God. I taste the bitterness that grew in my heart over the years, the anger and cynicism toward God.
I am still holding to grudges. I need forgiveness; the faith healer does too. If the nature of God’s forgiveness to me is characterized by my forgiveness to others, I reckon I am a sorry sack.
In the quiet space among the humble men at Owens Cross Roads, in these foothills thick with God, I picture this childhood moment and offer my own prayer. “Father, forgive,” I pray. “Forgive the human, frail, fellow servant in that Assembly of God all those years ago.” I see him in my mind with his oversized Bible and jug of oil. I hear his words: “If you have enough faith.”
“It is a lie,” I offer in the quieter places of my heart, “but I forgive you.”
In that moment, there is a breaking. I feel it, and the fire turns to ash.
If forgiveness is a letting go, then that is what I will do.
I release him from haunting my past, my present, and my future. I have given him permission to leave the cave of my soul; I allow the light of Christ’s forgiveness into the darkness.