“In the name of Jesus,” he said, not loudly, but the microphone caught every syllable, “I command that crooked spine to straighten. I command the pain to go to the feet of Jesus. Stand up.”
“I can’t,” she whispered.
“That’s the lie talking,” Copeland said, and he smiled again. “You can. The healing is already done. You just have to get up and walk into it.” kenneth copeland healing
Martha held her mother as the ushers gently guided them away from the stage, toward a side room marked “Miracles Testimonies.” Delia was crying, laughing, whispering, “He did it. He did it, Martha.”
Then, he arrived.
Martha hesitated. The aisles were clogged with ushers in navy polos, with people waving handkerchiefs. But she pushed. They stopped about twenty rows from the stage, in a pocket of exhausted faith.
But her mother was smiling. For the first time in eleven years, Delia was smiling not with hope, but with the memory of having been touched by a king. And Martha realized that was the real miracle—not the spine, but the smile. The comfort of the lie, made briefly, beautifully real by a man who had convinced himself first. “In the name of Jesus,” he said, not
Copeland released her into Martha’s arms. He raised both hands to the sky, his face lifted toward the lights, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Glory!” he shouted. “Glory to the Lamb!”
“In the name of Jesus,” he said, not loudly, but the microphone caught every syllable, “I command that crooked spine to straighten. I command the pain to go to the feet of Jesus. Stand up.”
“I can’t,” she whispered.
“That’s the lie talking,” Copeland said, and he smiled again. “You can. The healing is already done. You just have to get up and walk into it.”
Martha held her mother as the ushers gently guided them away from the stage, toward a side room marked “Miracles Testimonies.” Delia was crying, laughing, whispering, “He did it. He did it, Martha.”
Then, he arrived.
Martha hesitated. The aisles were clogged with ushers in navy polos, with people waving handkerchiefs. But she pushed. They stopped about twenty rows from the stage, in a pocket of exhausted faith.
But her mother was smiling. For the first time in eleven years, Delia was smiling not with hope, but with the memory of having been touched by a king. And Martha realized that was the real miracle—not the spine, but the smile. The comfort of the lie, made briefly, beautifully real by a man who had convinced himself first.
Copeland released her into Martha’s arms. He raised both hands to the sky, his face lifted toward the lights, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Glory!” he shouted. “Glory to the Lamb!”