It’s All in the Cards Pre-Finale Bonus: Worship

Narrated by Landon “Lemon” Whisnant of Audistorium

Tristan’s eyesight was getting worse. I thought he was just like his old man, near sighted, and just needed glasses. But then his right eye started to turn in, and I knew something was wrong. The doctor took one look at him and told us to get down to Children’s Hospital. We did, and they confirmed my fears. There was a tumor growing, pressing on his eye and turning it inward. The doctor started telling us our options, and I wanted to stay calm for my son, but as soon as we entered his room, and I saw my precious boy sitting on that bed in that hospital gown, I ran to him and scooped him in my arms and wouldn’t let go. All the while he’s telling me, Dad, Dad, I’m okay.
Those first few months, we were hopeful. We made the five hour trip to St. Jude’s for treatment, multiple trips. Tristan, my strong kind boy who always looks for the good in everything, struggled with one thing in particular for these treatments. They had to put a mesh mask over his face as he laid on the table. That mask… that mask scared him more than anything. I did my best to get him to be brave and hold still, and would always get a treat with him afterwards. But no amount of treats or soothing would take away his fear. A fear he shouldn’t even have to deal with.
We went to church on Sundays, everyone was happy to see him. Pastor Dale and the whole congregation laid hands on Tristan and prayed for his healing. But once treatment was over, and the tumor barely shrunk, it was easy to lose hope and lose faith. I kept taking him to church, but mostly for him to be with his friends and to keep a sense of normalcy.
I prayed every night to God. Some nights I just spoke about how I was feeling. But at some point, I stopped feeling like anyone was listening, and I wept. Through my weeping, that was when I heard her. Her voice was like a weighted blanket comforting my soul. She told me she heard me, she knew my suffering, and that she wanted to hear every day about me and Tristan. That one day she would be strong enough to help my boy. At first I thought she was just a dream, or just something I created in my head. But every night when I would despair, she would speak to me again. I would tell her about our day, if it was a good day or a bad day. She was there, listening to every word, asking thoughtful questions and giving advice.
Then Tristan had a stroke. He now needed assistance walking. We stopped going to church, although several of the ladies group came and brought us meals. They understood our plight but wished we would keep coming. But I stopped talking to God, and only talked to her. I never asked it of her, but in the back of my mind, I kept waiting for her to say she could heal him.
And finally those words came. By that time, Tristan’s face was blown up like a balloon from the steroids, and my baby boy barely resembled himself. But he didn’t lose his personality, and never blamed God. I don’t think that was ever a thought in his mind. He was so young and kind; he could never blame anyone.
And so when she told me she could help Tristan, I told her I’d do anything. She asked for nothing in return, only for me to bring him to the edge of the woods that lined my property. And so I did. I asked him if he would like to go outside and roast marshmallows, and I set up the fire pit near the trees.
For a few minutes we just enjoyed the sound of the fire and the taste of gooey, charred marshmallows. Then the wind stirred a bit, and a strong smell of honey beat back the smell of the smoke. And I felt her. But what I saw was not her. She told me what I was seeing was her champion. Her right hand to help heal the sick. He was quiet beneath the whoosh of the wind, his presence unknown to my son. I barely had time to register his presence, and certainly had no time to really take in what I was seeing. If I could even really take in an angel with my human eyes. He was gone as fast as he came, but the honey smell lingered for a while, and so did her presence.
After the next round of treatment, the tumor was gone. My son was healed, and it was because of her. I dropped down to my knees in that hospital and wept with joy, and held my son as tightly as I could. It was my turn to tell him he was okay. That everything was going to be okay.
I continued to pray to her. To talk to her, to tell her how Tristan was able to return to a normal life. He wasn’t at his full strength yet, but I knew with time and more healing he would. I thanked her every night for his second chance. And she was always there to listen, and happy to help. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for her to need something of me in return. She sensed it, and always reinforced that she needed nothing from me but my faith and prayer. That she loved to hear from me.
So, naturally, when my neighbor Richard found out he had cirrhosis of the liver, I prayed for him. And I told him I was praying for him, and told him who I was praying to. Richard had never been a believer in any faith, so he didn’t admonish me when I told him I wasn’t praying to God. On the night I knew she was sending her champion again, I sat with Richard. I told him a healing hand was coming. Another wind blew so hard it knocked out the power in his home and threw the front door wide open. Again her right hand came. Richard was afraid at first, but I took his hand and prayed. Again the angel was brief, but his presence and the Mother’s presence would stick with Richard and I both. Richard went in for his next check up, and the cirrhosis was gone.
Day after day, week after week, I have spoken to the Mother, and she listens. She doesn’t always say anything, but I know she’s there. And her champion is never far away when someone is in need. I have been careful not to ruffle the feathers of my Christian neighbors, and the ladies group still comes and checks on us and urges us back to Church. They think God healed my son, and I cannot bring myself to tell them any different. I pray to the Mother and beg for her forgiveness of my cowardice, but she tells me there is nothing to forgive. She does not need public praise, she only wants to be in our lives and help how she can.
And so I find more people to help. Whether through her champion to heal their physical ailments, or through me, advising me on how to be a good friend and help them through their emotional or mental strife. I talk vaguely about the Mother. Most are polite, some are even receptive to hear more. I testify to what she did for my son. I’m surprised by how many believe me. But I realize it’s because they hear her, too. A few confide in me that they thought they were just hearing things, or losing their mind. I reassure them of her presence, and her power. I notice more and more neighbors and people in Mountainburg wear her presence like a shield. I reach out to them all, to make sure they know she’s real and not just their imagination. Even some that I attended church with feel her. I invite them to my house to congregate and praise her for what she’s done for us.
Months have passed, we have prayed to her and thanked her for the blessings she has bestowed upon us. We are keeping the faith, spreading good deeds and her healing to those in need and open to her gifts. We continue to talk to her as she asks. She wants to be in our lives and touch us how she can. I hope one day the whole world can know her love.
I’m tucking Tristan into bed when I hear her call. Her presence reaches through me in a way it never has before. She tells me she is in need of my help, that there are those who work against her and are moving tonight to strike her down. She does not demand, but instead, asks if I will help her. Of course I will. Everything I have, I have because of her. I
open myself to her, and she descends upon me like a great hand piercing my chest and flowing through me. Filling me up with her warmth and love and divine power.
She is no longer a voice in my head. She is me. I am her. We are one, and we are many, scattered throughout Mountainburg and further into the Boston mountains. She tells me one thing, and with her words my purpose is born.
Unleash the mountain.
The End

This episode was written by Ashley McAnelly and Morgan Valko

Theme music by ThaArsonist

Outro music by Athan