There Is Healing In The Name Of Jesus
Art Sanborn was about rushing his toddler David, who had just tumbled headfirst down a steep stairway and became unconscious to the hospital, but David's brother protested, asking that they pray to Jesus instead. When 4 year old Sean prayed for his little brother, an astonishing miracle occured.
Having three preschool-aged children really kept us on our toes. It sometimes felt like a full-time job just keeping them alive. One of our safety precautions was a wooden gate that blocked the entrance to the long, steep stairway that led to our basement recreation room. One evening, David somehow unlatched the gate and tumbled headfirst down the stairs. He landed at the bottom with a crash against the concrete wall.
Ellen and I heard the crash, followed by a thump that sounded all too much like a tender head hitting the floor. We raced down the stairs, our hearts throbbing in our throats. When we reached little David, he was unconscious. His face was turning purple, and a large, swollen knot rose on his forehead.
I grabbed a mirror near the steps and placed it under David's nostrils. No breath fogged up the glass. I placed my thumb on his wrist. No pulse.
My heart sank. I said to Ellen, "Call Dr. Cohen and tell him to meet us at the emergency room right away."
Ellen was already sprinting up the stairs. Sean, our four-year-old son who had been playing in the basement, yanked on my trousers."Sean, what is it?" I said. "Can't you see that your brother is hurt?"
"Daddy," Sean said, "when you've got a little hurt, it's good to go to a doctor. But when you've got a big hurt, you gotta go to Jesus."
His words pierced my heart. I looked at the clock. The seconds were spinning by. I didn't know what else to do, but I certainly did not seem to have the same level of faith as my four-year-old.
"You're right, son. Would you pray?"
"Dear Jesus, please heal my baby brother. Amen."
Like a sprinter at the starting line, I waited for that "Amen" to begin my mad dash to the car. But David gasped and started to breathe again. My heart leapt, and so did my eyes, as I watched the lump on David's head shrink and vanish and the ominous, bluish-gray color of his skin give way to a warm, pinkish hue.
. . . .
The phone rang. It was Dr. Cohen. "I'm at the hospital," he said. "Why aren't you here?"
"I'm so sorry," I said. In the chaos, we had forgotten to call our wonderful doctor, who had interrupted his busy schedule to rush to the hospital. "I feel terrible that we put you to all this trouble. But uhm we actually ended up taking David to another Jewish doctor named Jesus."