By Kathryn Kuhlman
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I had, of course, heard of the Holy Spirit. He was the Third Person of the Trinity. " They were just words—words and phrases. Empty. Meaningless. The filling of the Holy Spirit was not meaningless to the Reekies, however. Nor were the gifts of the Spirit. They believed in healing—and in miracles. Many times when I grew faint in the night, when my heartbeat slowed and my legs crumpled under me, or when the pain surged through my chest and down my arm, Jack would rush to the phone to call the Reekies, even before he called the doctor.
Gone was my Scottish reserve, my Presbyterian dignity. Gone was the fear of ridicule, the shame of public opinion. I had denied Him once before; I would never do it again—even if I were laughed at or nailed to a cross. I dived for the aisle, tromping on people's feet, banging against their knees as they tried to move aside for me to get out. Behind me I could hear Bruce. "Mum, Mum, I can see colors out of my blind eye. " I reached back, grabbed his hand and pulled him along with me. We barged out of the row of seats and into the aisle.
Had God healed me? Was the sensation I had felt the other night really the Holy Spirit? Dr. Etheridge checked me out and then took an X-ray. "This is absolutely amazing," he said, as he held the negative up to the light. "Your heart has returned to its normal size. It is no longer enlarged. " I bit my lips. I wanted, desperately, to testify of the healing power of God, but I was afraid to tell Dr. Etheridge that I had been to the meetings—and that God had touched me. So I said nothing. Like Simon Peter of old, I refused to testify that I had been touched by God.
10,000 miles for a miracle by Kathryn Kuhlman