“He touched her hand and the fever left her and she got up and began to wait on Him”
(Matthew 8:15).
A sensitive woman named Marcia relates the following“touching” episode in her life: “Now you’ve come,” my grandmother whispered weakly from her bed. Just the night
before we had brought her to this nursing home, because it now took several people to move her large-boned, crippled body. Her complexion looked pasty in the morning light, and her colorless hair was wispy against her pillow. Grandma, always so active, always doing for others. Now her hands lay limp on the sheets — hands which once served heaps of potatoes and fried chicken on blue willow plates, kneaded bread, patched overalls, gathered eggs, churned butter. I shoved my hands into the pockets of my coat. I felt helpless and awkward, not knowing what to do or say.
Several days later I went to the doctor for a routine treatment. My three-year-old son stood wide-mouthed…
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