Holy Joe

Holy Joe

Published by Christian Day Publishing Company at Smashwords

Copyright 2015 Christian Day Publishing Company

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Holy Joe

PROLOGUE

His name was not yet known in New York City. And certainly not to me at that time. I used his words, along with those of Larry Grindle, to piece this early scene together, to give an idea of what kind of man this John Smith was. It was told me this way.

The halls of New York Medical Center were busy, as they were virtually every afternoon of the year. Aides moved about pushing carts of medicines and food. Nurses carried trays with syringes or they entered data into reports behind tall, sweeping counters. Doctors glided through corridors reading charts on clipboards. And visitors scanned door numbers and hall signs in search of direction through the maze of passageways.

John Smith was among the latter, holding a slip of paper and glancing at numbers imprinted on pastel panels beside doors. He was dressed more shabbily than most, in worn jeans, faded flannel shirt and scuffed sneakers from an earlier fashion era. Nevertheless, no one in authority took notice or suspected the reason for his visit. He was just one among the multitude.

He stopped at the end of a fourth-floor hallway to compare the information beside the door with his note. Forty-four sixteen. The name posted in a slip frame matched his note. Glancing behind him, he saw a nurse hurry out of a room two doors away, walk to an open door directly across the hall and disappear inside. She did not look in his direction. A male aide pushed a frail, pale woman in a wheelchair toward the nurses’ station at the center of the wing. Their backs were to John. Other personnel seemed distracted with their own tasks or pursuits.

He touched the door to 4416 and pushed. It arced inward easily and stopped, leaving an opening of more than three feet. The room was dimly lit from a source around the corner to his left. Straight ahead, he saw the foot of a single bed, occupied by someone whose torso was obscured, and beyond, two chairs, both empty. No other bed was in the room.

That was perfect, he thought. He wanted no witnesses.

He stepped inside and slipped the door quietly back toward the jamb. The bed’s sleeping occupant was a male, approximately the age written on the note. The face was partially hidden behind an oxygen mask. That did not matter because John Smith had never seen the person anyway.

He stepped forward quietly.

In less than two minutes, his mission complete, John Smith slipped back outside the door, purposely not looking down the hallway in the direction from which he had come. Instead, he walked directly across the hall to an exit door and proceeded to the stairs leading to the ground floor.

The routine busy-ness and distracted atmosphere on the floor continued for several minutes.

Routine ended when a bewildered voice called out from room 4416. It was almost lost against the continuum of hospital sounds. Uncertain eyes looked over the counter at the nurses’ station, and, seeing nothing unusual, ducked down again. Moments later, the next call had a tone of urgency. It pierced the walls and echoed down the hall. The nurse two doors up in 4420 poked her head outside the doorway and looked both ways. A visitor holding a magazine stepped outside 4413 and scoured the hall before shrugging at the nurse across the hall. The supervising nurse rose, frowning, from her seat behind the station at the convergence of hallways and pointed to the last room. As she did, a third call – Nurse! – cut decisively through all other sounds.

Room 4416! called the supervisor at the station. Grindle!

The nurse dashed from 4413 as a light above the 4416 doorway flashed red, and the calling voice inside turned to a scream that rang down all the corridors of the cancer ward.

Before she reached the room, the door to 4416 swung in and banged against the inside wall with a boom. Lawrence Grindle, age sixty-nine, formerly on death-watch, to whom last rites had been administered fifty-five minutes earlier, rushed into the open doorway and ran squarely into the approaching nurse, knocking her backward and causing her to stagger for balance.

What happened? he screamed. There’s nothing wrong with me! Nothing! His eyes bulged, as did the veins in his neck. His hands waved about urgently. He saw the startled nurse whom he almost knocked down. I’m okay! he shouted at her.

The supervising nurse who had been seated at the station ran past her stunned coworker to take charge of the disturbance.

Mr. Grindle! she said firmly and in a soothing professional tone as she took hold of his left arm. Let’s get back inside, all right? Glancing up the hall she saw people leaning out doorways and beginning to form small, curious clusters in the passageway. Through the gathering gaggle, a physician stormed around the corner at the intersection of halls. She nodded to him and held out her arm in his direction. Dr. Stewart is coming to help. Her voice was firm, calm, in control. Everything is going to be all right, now, Mr. Grindle. Let’s just go back inside, please.

Turning aside to the first nurse on the scene, who moved forward in apparent confusion, the supervisor hissed, Sedative. Quick! The other nurse sprinted down the hall, which was populated with curious faces.

Grindle pulled his arm free and leaned toward the nurse to force eye contact. I don’t need a sedative! I’m fine! he said in distinct syllables. I want to get out of here and go home.

What’s going on, here? demanded Dr. Stewart as he came to a halt before the patient and nurse.

Mr. Grindle is apparently having a reaction, Doctor.

What’s wrong, Mr. Grindle? asked the physician in a suddenly peaceful voice as he sidled to the patient, slipping a comforting arm over his shoulder. He stepped toward the room as if to guide the patient inside.

Grindle did not budge. Nothing’s wrong. I feel healthier than I ever have. I’m not sick anymore.

Rather than create a scene, the doctor resumed a position at his side. Did you have a dream, Mr. Grindle? Is that what happened? he asked softly.

No, it’s not a dream! Frustration lifted his voice.

Please try to be calm and quiet so we won’t disturb the other patients, okay?

Cocking his head to the side and leaning dramatically toward the physician, Grindle spoke in a stage whisper, measuring his words. It’s not a dream! I saw a man in my room. He looked like he was praying and he put a hand on my head and said something. And I started feeling heat throughout my body. He glanced at the nurse behind the doctor. Not like fire or anything that hurt, but like I’d had an injection of warm adrenaline or something. It was like waking up all the numbness and the deadness in my arms and legs.

The other nurse arrived with a tray covered by a white towel.

I’m not taking a sedative, Doc, Grindle said louder. Listen to me. I’m well. Call my brother for me, okay?

Okay, said the physician calmly. Let’s go back in. We’ll run some tests and we’ll call your family.

Larry! The shout came from a man trotting toward them. He was heavyset, in his early fifties, and his face was etched with concern. His clothing and hair were disheveled.

Larry, it’s me. Georgie. You okay, Buddy? George Grindle stopped behind the nurse, reaching a hand past her to his brother. I was out getting coffee. I didn’t mean to leave you. Lawrence reached past the doctor and nurse to grasp the hand.

I’m better than okay, he said, his eyes moistening and turning red at the lids, and his face beginning to contort with emotion at the sight of his brother. He gripped the hand with strength for emphasis. I’m gonna live, Georgie.

George Grindle winced and stared at the hand gripping his own. He turned a questioning eye to the physician.

Mr. Grindle, the physician said calmly to George. We think perhaps your brother is having a reaction to some medication. It’s nothing to worry about. We’re going to run a few tests, but first we need to get him calmed down.

I don’t need no calming down, I tell you. Georgie, I’m not sick anymore. Tears rolled quickly down his face and jaw, dripping onto his gown. Suddenly he looked fully at his brother, his face calming in resolve. They’ll see. Let them run the tests. Then we’ll go get a real cup of coffee. He winked at his brother and allowed the physician to lead him into his room.

Why don’t you go down to the waiting room, Mr. Grindle, urged the nurse softly, with a hand on his arm. I’ll come get you once the doctor determines how to counter the reaction. She smiled sympathetically and nodded to him.

* * * * *

George Grindle was thumbing nervously through a National Geographic when the door to the waiting room swung open. Lawrence Grindle stood on the threshold wearing clothes that he had worn when George drove him to the hospital three weeks earlier. He held the small tote bag in which he had brought his toiletries, and on his face was a wide, I-told-you-so grin.

How ‘bout that coffee, Bud? he said, jerking his head eagerly toward the hallway behind him. I invited the doc, but he said he needed something stronger.

Open-mouthed as the pair walked past the nurses’ station, George alternated between staring at his brother and the motionless array of nurses gathered to watch Lawrence Grindle depart.

George Grindle did not know what to make of this turn of events. All he knew was that his heart was beating like it had not beat in years, and he could not see the features of his brother’s beaming face because tears blurred his vision. And besides that, he could barely keep up with his brother, Larry’s, confident, energetic stride.

CHAPTER ONE

The sign in front of the massive brick-and-concrete church read:

KARENNA STEWART

AUTHOR OF MY FRIEND, HOLY JOE

IN PERSON

W, TH & FRI 7PM

I hadn’t known her last name. In fact I hadn’t known a book had been published about John Smith. But she had to be the Karenna I had seen years before. After all, how many Karennas could there be who were friends with the man some called Holy Joe?

Just seeing her name on the sign brought back many memories. And to my consternation, it made me realize I had held some animosity toward her, for which I know John would have taken me to task. It’s pretty sad to have to admit hidden ill will. But as I said, I didn’t realize I had such feelings until she entered my conscious thoughts again. And of course, I had to deal with that. I had to forgive her.

Anyway, I called the church to find out more. Yes, the receptionist said, Karenna had lived in New York City, and yes, she had been a dancer. I should come out to hear her testimony, the lady prompted, for this Karenna Stewart had written a book about a man some claimed had performed miracles a few years back in New York City. She acknowledged she had not read the book, or even remembered the supposed miracle-worker’s real name, but she was sure it would be a powerful testimony, for this woman had actually known the mysterious Holy Joe.

I wanted to go. She would not recognize me, of course. I had only seen her three or four times, all briefly, and I’m sure I was virtually invisible on those occasions.

So I was at the church the first of three nights on which she was to give her testimony. They had advertised the meetings, so a fair crowd turned out. She had once been beautiful, I had been told, but was not extremely so the times I’d seen her. Fortunately, a few years made a big difference for her, because she had regained some of that reputed beauty since my sightings of her, more in a subdued way.

To her credit, she told the story of her distant past the way my friend, John, had told it to me. I’m sure most of the people in attendance actually came because of her announced association with him rather than for her own reputation. Of course, much of her message that night was about him, and what an influence he had been on her. Ultimately, at least.

As she spoke, my hardness toward her began to melt and disappear. The sorrow in her voice was ample evidence that she regretted her – well, the way she had treated him.

The one thing she said that stuck with me, and actually surprised me because I had not given her credit for that kind of insight, was that John was an ordinary man who did extraordinary things for no reason other than his complete availability to and trust in God. She spoke truthfully in that, I believe.

I was wrong to resent her, of course. There’s never any justification for unforgiveness, especially when it’s for someone else’s sake. And more especially, when that other person doesn’t hold a grudge. After all, who among us hasn’t done something worthy of unforgiveness? And yet we’ve sought or wanted forgiveness just the same.

Later that night, as the crowd buzzed with after-church talk, and visitors ambled toward the doors, I stood in a line of people waiting to talk with her, though I didn’t know quite what to say. That I had been John’s friend? Remind her that we had met briefly? That John had told me about her, using only her first name to protect her, undoubtedly not guessing that one day I would have the opportunity to discuss him with her? Nothing seemed appropriate, or necessary.

Once I got closer to the front of the line, I overheard bits and parts of her conversations with those waiting to speak with her.

What was it like to talk with Mr. Smith? one lady asked. I heard people could hardly stand up when they were next to him, the power of God was so strong.

Well, ma’am, no, I had no difficulty standing around John, but as you recall from my testimony, I was around him very little after I regained my sight. I’m ashamed to say I was living in sin during almost his entire New York City ministry period.

Well, weren’t you the reason he came to New York in the first place?

I suppose that’s true, though he never said that to me. I could hear the humility in her voice. I need not have been concerned that she was capitalizing on her relationship with John.

An older woman held a copy of Karenna’s book for her to autograph. Did you ever see any of the miracles he performed? she asked as Karenna signed.

I’m afraid I didn’t. While I was still blind, he used to tell me about things God told him, and they were so amazing. In fact, I remember John telling me that God had told him in advance He was going to heal me.

Really? Oh, how exciting!

Yes, it was. I thank God to this day for that miracle.

I wanted to tell them I had seen miracles first hand, had been right there when they happened, and that it had taken much of the ensuing years for me to fully accept the fact that they actually occurred. I wanted to say I had even been a recipient of the miraculous, right on the dirty and rude streets of New York City, perhaps one of the last places on earth one would normally expect to see the power of God exhibited freely. But of course, it was not for me to speak up.

Soon I realized that to persist in waiting would serve no useful purpose, except to make a connection where none was needed. I was happy for her, happy that God had won her back, happy that life had turned out right for her. I felt that God had achieved what He had intended, for me at least, by arranging for her to be so near my hometown in Texas, where I happened to be visiting that week. The critical result for me was that I forgave her of some hazy allegation I had built up against her.

I stepped out of line and ambled somberly out of the church and to my car, feeling vaguely that I had renewed an old acquaintance with John, simply by coming near someone who had been so dear to him. What a long time it had been – worlds and more away! I was now retired, having sold my advertising business and shifted my news writing exclusively to that which is related to good news.

* * * * *

That evening listening to Karenna Stewart put me in remembrance of so much.

My old school friend, John. What an enigma he was! A boy of average everything and the least noticeable personage in youth of anyone I’ve ever known, yet in adulthood, the most dynamic human influence I’ve ever encountered. I’ve had many regrets in my life, but few so deep as the regret that I was not his friend from the first time I saw him.

Years after he told me so, I realize that I agree with his adamant assertions, and with the statement Karenna made, that he really was just an ordinary person who chose to lay everything down for Christ, and that God would have done the same things through anyone who was thoroughly willing and obedient.

Someone once said, The world has yet to see what God can do with a life fully consecrated to Him.

When I remember John, I think I just might have come close to seeing such a life.

Some said he was obsessed; some said he was a delusional fanatic. But I know better.

I was fortunate enough to know something of his very early years – though not from the perspective of a friend, as I said – and a lot more about his more recent past than the news writers knew, or the clergy who judged him so recklessly. One thing we agree on, however: his days on earth were not normal. The interesting thing was, he saw nothing abnormal about himself or his life. In his mind, he was the way normal was supposed to be.

He probably was just as bland and colorless as I and some of his other childhood acquaintances have implied in remembrances about his younger years. And certainly his name didn't help. John Smith. Nor would he have been rescued from blandness by reverting to use of his initials – J. E. had nothing of the personality that J.B., J.T. or J.R. might have accorded to him. The E. was for Edward, which was no cooler than John. So the highest elevation to which his name lifted him was Johnny. A bit of excitement to it, yet in all truth most people didn't see him as a Johnny, but a John.

John Vanilla, Ho-Hum, Plain John Smith.

That is, until something changed him.

Of course, skeptics say people never change. And it is true, you never know what’s inside a person, to say with certainty whether some dramatic outward change is really change, or just the springing forth of what was already there.

Perhaps the seed of greatness was there all along, like that strange tree that lies dormant in its seed for years and years, until it finally one day shoots up in tremendous growth practically overnight.

Something did happen early on that could have sparked a dramatic change in John Smith’s life, and my personal opinion is, if this didn’t do it, it probably contributed.

* * * * *

In Jefferson Elementary School, John was almost unnoticeable. Really. Neither tall nor short, fat nor frail, neither flashy of smile nor tainted with the gloom of defiance. He parted his thin brown hair on the left, like most of the other compliant boys his age, a simple, stark, neat white line wet with water and sliced by his mother's loving comb before she kissed him at the door and put the brown paper lunch bag in his Army surplus book satchel.

The most prominent thing I remember of him was that while his clothes always looked worn, they were invariably crisp and clean. His shirts had their collars ironed flat and any holes were mended neatly. His jeans had patches at the knees, like the jeans some of the other boys wore, but his always had a crease, without grass stains. Once some of us boys laughed behind his back because his pants were too long for him, like he’d gotten them hand-me-down from someone bigger. They were rolled up about four times at the ankles, and his belt pulled big pleats at the waist. He seemed oblivious to the way he looked.

What made me remember was how bad I felt later for laughing. I hope the other guys felt bad about it, too.

He walked a mile or so to school past sad and sagging three-room houses sitting on lots without a blade of grass in the yards. They surrounded his Mother's sparkling-white three-room clapboard house like dead leaves crowding a jonquil in early spring. He didn't have brothers or sisters to walk along with him. His older brother had fallen from a tree and died when John was two and a half. Other kids walked the same route, some running past him without speaking, to catch up with one kid or another, usually one who had new clothes or an extra yo-yo or a bag of cat-eye marbles. I guess they – we – looked up to the kids that were tough or were what we thought of as cool, like the fourth-grader who had drunk nearly half a beer once, and puffed on a cigarette while his Daddy held it.

Wouldn't it be great to have a Daddy like that? they all oohed.

John would have been happy to have a Daddy at all. His Dad took off somewhere after the older boy died. I don’t know that John or his mother ever heard from him again.

When the beer-and-cigarette kid got a shiny new bicycle for Christmas in the fifth grade, it seemed like bicycles sprang out of nearly every faded house around the neighborhood, bright wire baskets mounted to the handlebars to hold school books. When John stood obediently at the last forbidding traffic light between home and school, awaiting the green permission to walk, straggling bicycle riders sped across between slow-moving cars to beat the tardy bell.

John was probably tempted to give in to resentment. No doubt he noticed his dramatic lack in the face of others' apparent plenty, even though nearly everything about John went unnoticed by others.

Don’t worry, Honey. One day, you’ll be blessed so much you won’t believe it’s you. That's what his mother told him often, when she saw that look on