“Hey! Wake up!”
I rubbed my eyes as my dream faded far too quickly. I’d been holding my son’s small hand in mine as we walked to the market. The warmth in my chest from his smile lingered. Was that pride in his eyes?
I immediately regretted touching my face. My fingers dripped fresh blood after lifting the scab near my eye. I scowled at the Galilean standing over me. Not only had he cut short the time with my son, even in the fragility of a dream, he’d inadvertently caused me this latest pain.
“Well? What do you want?” I barked.
“It’s the healer! We’ve news that he’s coming this way.”
I caught myself before scratching my head. “The healer?”
“Jesus, from Nazareth! They say he does miracles. I heard he might have even raised someone from the dead!”
Dead. That was us: a brotherhood of the walking dead. Banished from our homes, our communities; the ten of us forming our own little colony, so we at least had each other. It was the worst kind of prison, carrying a life sentence. We craved actual death as a release. But, could it be true? Was there a chance?
“Even if it is so, he’s one of you. I am a Samaritan, an unclean one, at that. Most Jews think we are revolting pagans at the best of times.”
My companion groaned. “No, you don’t understand! This healer doesn’t seem to care. He teaches about love and forgiveness, and His followers say he’s the Son of God!”
When I didn’t respond, he continued. “Besides, if you cover your head, as well as your face, he may not notice. Just stand next to me.”
Dare I hope? I looked down at my ripped clothing, remembering a former life, a life with my wife and son. Could this man give me back that life?
I’d heard impressive things about the Jewish God. Many believed that our sins caused this disease – a curse cast upon us by the gods. Would this God look past my heritage and my sores and see a broken man who needed healing, inside and out? A tear stung the open wound near my eye as I looked up to the heavens.
“Show me your power, God of the Jews. If you heal me, I will worship you.”
I heard the others talking excitedly, and I felt something dark and heavy lift off my chest as I ran to join them.
“He’s coming! I can see his followers!” someone announced from the front.
The ten of us stood as close as we were allowed to the road that he travelled. The law demanded we warn the group of our contagion by shouting, “Unclean!” but today, we had a plan of our own.
When the healer was within hearing distance, we all cried out as one: “Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!”
He stopped and looked at us. I quickly tugged down my head covering and hid my face, but not before his eyes met mine. There was something in them that reminded me of my son in that dream. It resembled love, and I felt it wash over me like an ocean wave. That’s when I knew. This man was going to heal us and set us free.
He spoke with compassion. “Go, show yourselves to the priests.”
We looked at each other in confusion. Show ourselves to the priests? We hadn’t shown ourselves to anyone for years.
Two of the men began running toward town. “Well? Come on!” one called over his shoulder. “If the healer says go, we go!” I watched in shock for a few seconds as men who could hardly move because of their pain now ran, laughing like children. As I took my first few steps to join them, I felt that wave again, and I looked down. The skin on my arms was clear.
I stopped suddenly and felt my face. Tears streamed over my cheeks and into my beard with no sting. My sores were gone!
I turned around and ran to catch up with the healer and his travel mates, and when I reached him, I threw myself on the ground at his feet.
“Praise be to the God of the Jews! Thank you! Thank you! I will worship your God forever.” I kept my head down, realizing how reckless I had been. If he saw that I was a Samaritan, he might take back the healing.
I heard him say, “Were not all ten cleansed? Where are the other nine? Has no one returned to give praise to God except this foreigner?”
My heart pounded. He knew.
As I raised my head and looked into his kind eyes, he said, “Rise and go; your faith has made you well.”
And I did. I raced to catch up to the others, praising God as I went. He’d not only healed my body, but he had also touched my soul. My sins had been forgiven, and my life had been restored. Why? Because God is love.
Ten men were healed of leprosy in this story, which can be found in Luke 17:11-19. Yet, only one stopped to say thank you. Why?
Did they need to have their healing verified by the priests in order to actually believe it had happened? Were they too excited to see their families and friends after a separation that may have lasted years? Since the man was known to be a healer, did they think that he didn’t require a show of gratitude? We’ll never know their reasons, but my guess is that they were extremely thankful.
As we approach Thanksgiving and I reflect on this story, I feel a twinge of guilt. I do not praise God and thank Him nearly enough for all of the blessings in my life. That doesn’t mean I’m not grateful. So, why do I not stop more often to throw myself at his feet and praise him?
Do you sometimes feel that way too? Let’s rise every morning with praise and thanksgiving on our lips and pray as David did in Psalm 138:1-2 (NLT):
I give you thanks, O Lord, with all my heart; I will sing your praises before the gods. I bow before your holy Temple as I worship.
I praise your name for your unfailing love and faithfulness; for your promises are backed by all the honor of your name.
For more blog posts like this, visit Val’s Stage at www.valsstage.com. If you’re on Instagram, check out my TUESDAY TICKLE and FRIDAY FUNNY posts – a joke for a chuckle and a Christian message to encourage or challenge your faith [@valdagoudie].
