I am currently on the last revision of my first novel, SAINT JIM. It has been a long road of culling passive sentences, removing useless words, fixing connection points, etc. I have read it so many times I think I have parts of it memorized. The story is of a homeless man named, Jim, who develops an ability to heal. He comes upon this gift by accident, but is reluctant to use it because he wants to remain anonymous. The gift, however, has a mind of its own and compels him to help others–almost like an addiction.
I had completed the first draft of my novel in 2010 with all the places and characters complete and was in a hospital helping my wife as she recovered from a surgical procedure. When I arrived at the refreshment area on that hospital floor to make my wife some tea, I found an older white-haired gentleman there in his patient gown getting some water. I asked him how he was doing.
“I have my faith in the Lord,” was his response.
I found him interesting, so I struck up a conversation. Now, understand that I never brought up my novel or healing in any way during our talk. I asked why he was in the hospital, and he said that he had a cancer and was recovering–the Lord willing. He volunteered that he had been reborn and even a healer at one point. This caught my attention.
The gentleman told me that he had been given the gift of healing when he re-dedicated his life to the Lord after being away from the Church for a long time. He remarked that the power of healing was real and beautiful at the same time. He claimed to have healed one particular man of some deadly disease. He told the man that he would remain healed on the condition that the man turned from his dark path within a year. The man was healed but a year later abruptly passed because he remained unrepentant. The gentleman told me that he had lost this healing gift after he once again had a lapse in his faith. He no longer could heal but his trust in the Lord remained strong, so he assured me he would be all right.
I asked that man his name. Somehow I knew what he would say. He said, “Jimmy.”
This gave me a small sign that maybe I should complete my latest revisions and somehow get it published. I never saw Jimmy again on that floor as my wife was released soon afterward. That was two years ago and I’m thoroughly amazed, even now, that every time I read my latest draft that there is still some typo, unconnected detail, or polishing to be done. The time has finally come though for me to wrap it up. It’s like an old friend you spent a number of years with who’s moving away to another city. I don’t want that relationship to end, but I have to give it up. Who knows maybe we will reconnect someday.