The Ordeal of Desperation Part 4

 Food For The Nerves 

Why is it that I always seem to encounter people who claim to know some miracle worker with the power to heal?

It was a dull evening, the kind that stretched on endlessly, where stories and laughter flowed freely over the remnants of a hearty meal. Our full stomachs had lulled us into a peaceful stupor when the phone rang, shattering the calm. It was one of the church members.

Her voice carried a mix of urgency and excitement. "I know a woman," she said, "a healer who uses herbs and diet to cure all manner of illnesses." I raised an eyebrow, intrigued yet skeptical. Food? A cure for damaged nerves? It sounded absurd.

Still, curiosity—or perhaps desperation—prevailed. We invited her to visit. The day of reckoning arrived, and in the early afternoon, she appeared, calm and poised, exuding an air of self-assured professionalism. She wasted no time, asking about my accident and the X-rays from the hospital.

She studied the scans with furrowed brows, nodding and mumbling cryptic phrases no one could decipher. Then, as if to solidify her expertise, she flipped through a well-worn book, muttering to herself. Finally, she stood, approached me, and without warning, pinched my chest.

Pain shot through me, and instinctively, I almost slapped her hand away, recoiling. "What sort of doctor does this?" I thought, baffled and a little angry. But before I could voice my concerns, she launched into a fervent monologue, recounting stories of miraculous recoveries. She even offered contact details for her previous patients, urging us to verify her claims.

We nodded along, too polite—or perhaps too desperate—to challenge her. And so, the "treatment" began.

She scrutinized my diet with a condescending smile. "You need to lose weight," she declared, her words stinging. Lose weight to heal nerves? It was laughable. But who was I to question the wisdom of the "great doctor"?

Everything I ate was wrong, according to her. White rice? Replace it with brown. Chapati? Only the whole wheat kind. Meat? Out of the question—soya was the new staple. Milk, red meat, and some legumes were forbidden. Instead, my plate would now overflow with carrots, beets, and mysterious vegetables I’d never tasted.

The pièce de résistance? Three "special" juices I had to drink religiously—first thing in the morning and before bed.

Then came the most bizarre demand. "Buy a pot," she instructed. A pot? It felt like stepping into a bygone era. The quest for a pot felt like an impossible mission—I hadn’t laid eyes on one in years. Just as we began to grumble, questioning not only the practicality but also the very purpose of this "tool," she interrupted with startling confidence. Not only did she have a solution for where we could procure one, but she also rattled off the exact dimensions as if she’d conjured the thing herself. It was as if she had anticipated our every doubt and had come prepared to silence them all.

She explained that I needed to steam myself daily under a blanket with some herbs that, to my untrained eye, looked like ordinary sticks.

Steam to cure nerves? I wanted to laugh, but her confidence was disarming.

The cost of the treatment was astronomical, an amount so outrageous I’m embarrassed to even share it. But this woman was well-known and respected in the church. Her reputation—and her smooth words—left us no room to argue. She promised transformation within 30 days if I followed her regimen to the letter.

Desperation makes fools of us all. I embraced the program, faithfully drinking the juices, eating the bland food, and enduring the steaming sessions. Days turned into weeks, and I waited, each passing moment filled with hope. I stared at my feet, willing them to move, but nothing happened.

Months slipped by. The sight of forbidden foods—chicken, fish, a tender piece of beef—became unbearable. I caved, convincing myself a little indulgence wouldn’t hurt. Slowly but surely, I abandoned the program altogether.

The healer called, persistent and hopeful, asking for updates. I dodged her questions, offering excuses about being out of town or too busy. Eventually, my silence spoke louder than words. She must have realized the truth: the patient was either healed or had given up.

Friends, desperation can blind us. It can lead us to squander time, money, and hope on empty promises. Trust in God, for He alone is the true healer. Let these stories serve as a reminder: not every Tom, Dick, or Mary can work miracles.

Through the trials I've faced and the many escapades, I've learned to embrace myself fully and find a profound sense of peace. It has taken time, but time surely heals. 

No one can sway me with tales of miracle healers or magical cures. My faith remains unshaken: if it is God's will for me to walk again, then it will happen in His perfect time. If not, my soul remains steadfast, accepting His plan. Yet, no matter the outcome, I pray my heart to never cease praising and worshipping Him for all eternity. The mere fact that im alive is enough for me. God Is Great Always. 

Amen 🙏