He was a good doctor, the kind who believed more than he had
been told. He delivered them all, sick and sane and insane. No one says insane
anymore. No one calls anything what it is anymore.
He was uncomfortable that day in his stone-cold, orderly
office. He had read the book and put it away. Lunch was soon. Not soon enough. In
staggered a helpless soul who needed his help. They exchanged pleasantries as
they often did.
“In my life,” the man said, “Something is always holding me
down.”
The doctor looked over his chart, noted the common
medications, therapy, diagnoses. He nodded.
The man went on, “It’s like I can’t ever catch my breath.”
The doctor nodded again, though he did not agree, understand
or anything associated with a nod.
“My spiritual breath,” the desperate patient clarified.
The hair stood up on the doctor’s neck.
He nodded, this time with understanding he wished he did not
have.
“Something is with me. I can feel it. It doesn’t belong
here.” The patient went on.
“It doesn’t belong here,” the good doctor repeated.
It was true. It didn’t belong. None of this belonged, the
ailments, the issues, the longing for freedom, man was made for more. The doctor
knew it. He just didn’t know how to get there.
In came the receptionist. She was an annoying woman at best,
always going on and on about Jesus. Of course she had come in, of course she
felt what was going on or knew it somehow deep in her churchy soul. She must
have heard a cry, or the spirit sent her or something.
“Doctor,” she said, “There is a man here to see you.”
He nodded.
When she turned to leave, he stopped her.
“Wait.”
She turned.
“Tell me again the story of your deliverance.”
She was taken aback. Almost everyone in the office had asked
her to stop telling them about her deliverance. In fact, she thought it a
miracle she still had a job.
She nodded.
“Well,” she began. “J…”
That’s it. All she got out was the beginning sound of the
name of Jesus and the demon left him.
