The God Who Hears

Night was falling when you saw the sick man for the first time. Two men were shuffling through the camp in your direction, the older one hunched over and leaning heavily on the arm of the younger. The old man’s jaw was clenched in pain. You recognized him as a friend of the spiritualist healers in your part of the camp. 

“Go,” the man told his companion when they reached you. “Give us some time.” 

For two days, your family and the surrounding neighbors had been disturbed by the sounds of this man’s pain. The refugee camp teems with people as far as the eye can see, and the result of being crammed together with strangers is the unwitting intimacy of knowing every argument, every virus, and—you sometimes think—every bout of indigestion experienced by any one of the two or three dozen people closest to you. This place has no natural resources, but it's become the safest space for thousands of impoverished homeless, displaced by civil war, displaced by floods, displaced by famine. You sleep in tens pitched in endless rows, and you eat food that is brought here by international aid organizations. None of you know if you will ever go home again.  

At times over the past couple of days, your own stomach had clenched in nauseated sympathy with the anonymous sufferer. Whatever was wrong with him, it sounded unendurable. 

And now here the sick man was, no longer anonymous, no longer invisible. You helped him into your tent. Your wife had gone out to get the children from where they were playing football, so the two of you were alone. Unending streams of sweat trickled from his scalp to his shirt collar. 

“Help me,” he whispered. He had not stopped clutching his stomach.  

You hated to see him suffer. But still. Why had he come to you? 

“I’m not a healer,” you told him. “I’m not a doctor.” 

The man started crying, bent double. 

“Pray for me!” he cried. “Pray for me! I know your God will hear you.” 

You were stunned. 

“What about the gods of your friends?” you asked. You’d been keeping a low profile here, sharing the news about Jesus quietly, one on one, never in large groups. It’s dangerous to profess faith in anything that goes against tradition here. 

“Help me!” the man said. “Your God will hear you, and he demands nothing in return.” 

The Holy Spirit moved you to agree aloud. 

“Yes,” you said softly. “That’s right.” 

This man, an unbeliever, had faith like the New Testament centurion who chased Jesus down to get help for his dying daughter. Jesus, too, was stunned by that kind of faith.

Humbled, whispering in your heart for the Father to help your unbelief, you gently put your hands on the man’s shoulders. 

You prayed. 

The night after that visit was very quiet. The change was unsettling. You stayed awake through it all, praying—half-hopeful, half-fearful—unsure what the silence might mean. 

The next morning, you barely cleared the door of your tent before someone crashed into you, nearly knocking you to the ground. You staggered back, your assailant’s arms squeezing your neck. You nearly struck him with your fists. Then you heard his voice. 

“I knew it,” the sick man said, releasing his hold on you with a laugh. “I knew your God would hear you!” 

He had come running to find you as soon as daylight broke. He was standing upright, laughing and smiling. The pain, he told you, was completely gone. Your God had healed him.