fiction

Short Fiction: “Healing Faith”

Photo by David Monje on Unsplash
story by Hope Olowo

I crack open the window to my tiny cottage. The sun pours its welcome heat upon me, and the breeze brushes past my face. I smile while gazing upon the street bustling with souls going about their daily activities. Some people burst with laughter, and others frown. Every day holds its own worries. I have lived the last twelve years buried by one particular worry. And even nature holds me in disgust.

My heart skips as a passer-by shoots me a disdainful glance. It is not out of curiosity regarding my confinement but the outpouring of a contempt-filled heart. I withdraw, shutting the window as fast as I can and throw my weight upon it as my knees weaken.

My life has become a liability. But twelve years ago, I was called Blessed. Twelve years ago, I drowned in wealth and health. Twelve years ago, I had it all.

They say, “To get what you want, you must give what you have.” But I have given all only to receive the worst. I even lost the one thing in which I would have rejoiced should wealth have deserted me: the presence of my people.

I slump to the floor in pain. There it is again, all over the floor.

The places I have been . . . the physicians I have seen—none could help. Twelve years ago, Israel called me Blessed, but here I am now, sitting on the ground in a pool of blood and tears. I feel I will drown in this ocean of helplessness and sorrow.

Voices from outside grow louder every minute. The air bears their pleas to the Son of David. I spring to my feet and fling open the window.

Mercy is what I need.

The crowd surrounds Him, the One who gives laughter and healing to the broken-hearted. Of all the physicians there ever was or will ever be, He is the greatest. The sun gleams above him; a smile births within me.

He is what I need. I’ve heard that healing lies within Him and that just His word brings the dead to life. Surely, with a touch of His garment—

I hurry through the door and push through the crowd. Let Israel pour her disgust upon me—my healing is only six feet away.

I stumble and fall against the growing crowd.

My freedom is just a touch away.

Just a touch. . . .

About Hope Olowo

Hope Olowo is an 18-year old writer from Nigeria. One day, Hope came across the Lost Pen Magazine and decided to submit a poem. Though she did not consider herself a writer, she felt stirred to write the poem, which she submitted to the magazine. To see her inspired, beautiful poem “A New Me,” download Lost Pen Magazine Issue 3.


For more inspirational content, please visit our Lost Pen Blog page. To download Lost Pen Magazine, visit our Magazine Issues page.

     

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