Pudgy

Pudgy’s real name was Steven. He was about 11. He was a pal of my kids and lived a street away.

One Saturday morning, my next door neighbor stopped by and asked me if I knew how Pudgy was doing. I didn’t know anything was wrong with him, but she told me that she was sure I knew as one of my sons was with him when he had been hit by a car the evening before. None of my kids had mentioned anything like this, and I couldn’t imagine that either of my boys would have come home from playing, sat down with the family to eat dinner, and never mention what had happened to Pudgy.

My neighbor told me that he was in the hospital and was not expected to live. There was a supermarket near my home, and this neighbor told me that Pudgy and two boys had been playing with carts from the supermarket and one had pushed the cart with Pudgy in it out into a major highway where it was hit by a car. Someone had told her that one of the boys had blond hair, and that was why she had assumed it was one of mine.

I quickly called my boys together and neither of them had been present. My neighbor told me what hospital he was in, so I went into my husband’s medical office, which adjoined the house. He was shocked, and as soon as he had finished his office hours, came into the house, refused lunch and said he was going immediately to the hospital to see what was going on. He said he was lead by God to lay hands on the child and pray for his healing. This was not a normal occurrence for him – although it wasn’t the only time my husband did this with miraculous results.

When he reached the local Catholic hospital, Pudgy was near death. The parents, Marylou and Jerry, had been told he would likely not live, or if he did, he would “be a vegetable.” Dick read the medical chart and said to the parents, “With my doctor hat, your son is very ill and going to die, but with my spiritual hat I am telling you he is going to recover.”

Pudgy was in a coma at this point, on a respirator, and non-responsive. He had severe head injuries. Dick laid hands on him and said, “Be healed in the name of Jesus.” With that, Pudgy coughed out his respirator and began breathing on his own. Dick left, and came home for lunch, and fully expected a miracle.

Dick went back to the hospital several days later and found Pudgy’s bed empty. Instead of panicking and thinking he was dead, he asked where they had moved the child. He was in a wheelchair in a solarium, not responding verbally, with eyes not focusing, but breathing on his own, and partly out of the coma. His parents said he had steadily improved after Dick’s prayer.

Pudgy remained in a semi coma, and I went in to see him and visited with Marylou. My children were also praying daily for their friend, and they decided I should take him in a particular gift. It was a game that required some intelligence to play. My son (the blond who wasn’t there, by the way) said that he didn’t want to send a sentimental type gift, but something that required Pudgy to be completely healed, and fully intelligent to play. He called it an “act of faith.”

Pudgy was discharged from the hospital shortly thereafter, and sent to a rehab – still not talking. One day, a week later, a nurse asked him a question, not really expecting an answer. Suddenly Pudgy answered, fully in control. A week later, he was home, hanging out in the neighborhood and riding his bike! He had missed a few weeks of school, but not one IQ point!

His healing was complete! And a miracle.

My husband never took any credit for this healing. He knew he was simply an instrument of God. God had directed him to go to the hospital, lay hands on Pudgy, pray for healing and then leave, and that's exactly what he did. Jesus was the healer.

Sandra C
Maine