Without a Word_ How a Boy's Unspoken Love Changed Everything - Jill Kelly [20]
My mother was diligently searching as well, but unlike me, she sought to know God so Hunter could be healed.
She was convinced that God would heal Hunter. I wasn’t.
She prayed for him to be healed. I didn’t.
It’s not that I never asked God to heal my son. I did. I desperately wanted Hunter to be healthy like the other boys his age, roughhousing and throwing the football in the backyard. I just didn’t think it would happen.
My mom wanted healing and I wanted heaven. We were quite the team.
With no stone left unturned, we charted our course and pursued our goal with different motives but the same passion. We would have done anything and everything to help Hunter. And we did, much to our dismay at times.
When Hunter was six months old, we heard about something called a “healing mass” hosted by a Roman Catholic church near our home. I was overly protective of Hunter and typically only took him out of the house for doctor’s appointments and family gatherings at my parents’ house. However, Hunter needed to be healed, and we were desperate, so off to the church we went. With much anticipation and hope, five of us piled in the van and headed to church: Hunter; my mother and I; my close friend Mary; and my best friend from high school, Karyn, who was in town, and who, as Hunter’s godmother, wanted to do whatever she could to help.
The church was packed but we managed to squeeze into a pew in the back. As I looked around, I was amazed. Where did all of these people come from, and why are they here? I wondered. A few familiar hymns were sung and then such a grandiose introduction was made, you would’ve thought the pope had come to Western New York. The majestic ovation the holy man received when he walked out onto the altar was fit for a king. I don’t remember if he was a priest, a bishop, or a member of some other pontifical rank. I do remember, however, that he was dressed in what looked like a royal robe, he was from Ireland, and from what they said, he had the power to heal.
Because none of us had ever been to a healing mass, we had no idea what to expect. I glanced over at Karyn a few times during the service and the look on her face expressed exactly how I felt. I wanted to leave. But it wasn’t about me; Hunter needed to be healed, so we stayed.
After an hour had passed, Hunter started to fuss and cry, so rather than disturb the people around us, we snuck into the quiet room at the back of the church. It was impossible to concentrate on what the holy healer from Ireland was saying, so we just focused on trying to calm Hunter down.
“Mom, let’s just go,” I pleaded. “Hunter doesn’t want to be here, and I don’t know what else to do.”
“We can’t leave now….” my mother began. Then a kind but strange woman interrupted her: “Give the baby to me. I’ll calm the child down.”
Before I could respond, the woman scooped Hunter out of my arms. My mother and I looked at each other in shock. I glanced over at Karyn and Mary, and they, too, were wide-eyed and dumbfounded.
Agitated, I moved to grab Hunter out of the stranger’s arms, but my mother beat me to it. Very graciously and politely she took Hunter from the woman. “Thank you for your help, but I’ll take him now,” my mother said with authority in her voice.
We were all distraught and completely disillusioned with everything by this point. “Jill, let’s get out of here,” Karyn insisted.
Suddenly I glanced up and noticed that people were starting to congregate around the altar. Lines had formed down every aisle as men, women, and children waited patiently for the priestly man to lay hands on them and pray over them.
“Now what are we supposed to do?” I asked as my mother gently laid my crying son in my arms.
“We’ve stayed this long—you’ve got to take Hunter up there,” my mother urged.