1,331 words, 7 minutes read time.
My name is Eli, and I remember that day like it happened only yesterday, though it feels like a lifetime ago. It began years ago when I was still a carpenter, full of life and energy, with a fiancée named Miriam. I had dreams of building a family and a home. But one moment—one terrible, fateful moment—shattered everything.
I was on a roof, working as I always had, when my foot slipped, and I fell. The fall was long, but the crash of my body against the ground was the hardest part. I heard the sickening crack of bone, and then the silence of being unable to move. My legs—once so strong and capable—were now as still as the stone beneath me.
The physicians—men of wisdom in our community—came to look at me, but their diagnosis was grim. I had been paralyzed. My life, as I knew it, was over.
Miriam left me soon after. She couldn’t bear the weight of caring for someone like me. My family tried to help, but I could see the pity in their eyes. The man I had been, the man I could have been, was gone. The paralyzed man I had become was all that remained.
And so I was left alone. Isolated. In my bed. My once-proud body a useless, twisted thing. I was consumed with bitterness and anger. Why me? I asked myself every day. What did I do to deserve this?
There was no escaping the darkness in my heart. Every day felt like the last. Every moment felt heavier than the one before it. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t walk, and I couldn’t escape the thoughts that whispered to me in the quiet hours of the night. What was the point of living when you couldn’t even stand on your own two feet?
I remember thinking about ending it all. There was nothing left to live for. I had become a burden on the world, and I couldn’t see any way out. But I didn’t have the courage to take that final step. Instead, I lay in my bed, drifting between despair and numbness.
Then one day, my friends came to me. Jonah, Levi, Amos, and Barak. They had heard of a man named Jesus, a healer, a miracle worker who was said to be curing the sick, even the paralyzed. They wanted to take me to see Him.
At first, I laughed bitterly.
“Why bother?” I asked. “You think this Jesus is going to fix me? You think He’s going to make me walk again? I’ve heard it all before, but no one has the power to change something like this.” My voice was full of mockery and hopelessness. “I’ve been like this for years. Why would I believe now? What good is it to hope again, just to be disappointed?”
But they wouldn’t give up. “Eli, listen to us,” Jonah said, his voice urgent. “You’ve lost hope, but we haven’t. We know this man—Jesus—has healed people. We want you to at least try. We’re taking you to Him.”
I shook my head, refusing to even entertain the idea. What did I have left to believe in? I was a shell of a man. Who was I to expect healing? Still, they didn’t give up. They lifted me up, physically and emotionally, and carried me out of the house.
When we arrived in Capernaum, the place was packed. People were spilling out of every door and window of the house where Jesus was staying. The crowd was so thick that we couldn’t even get close. I felt a wave of hopelessness wash over me. Was I too late? Was I just going to be another one of the faces in the crowd, forgotten and overlooked?
Jonah, ever resourceful, didn’t hesitate. “We’ll go through the roof.”
I laughed, bitter and tired. “The roof? You’re going to carry me up there and drop me down like a package?”
But they didn’t hesitate. They had faith in something I couldn’t feel. They carried me up to the roof and began digging through the thatch and mud. I could feel the weight of the moment, and part of me wanted to tell them to stop. But another part—deep inside, far beneath the layers of pain and anger—I wanted to believe.
They finally made an opening large enough, and they carefully began to lower me into the room where Jesus was. As I descended, I could feel all eyes on me. I was a spectacle. The center of attention. But all I could think about was the moment I would reach the floor. The humiliation of it.
And then, I saw Him.
Jesus.
I had heard about Him, but I had never seen Him. He was sitting in the midst of the crowd, teaching. His gaze lifted toward me as I landed before Him, and I saw something in His eyes. Something I had never seen before. It was not pity. It was not judgment. It was something deeper—something I had long forgotten.
As I lay there, unable to move, Jonah spoke, breaking the stillness. “Lord, we’ve heard of Your power. We’ve seen You heal a man with leprosy. Will You heal our friend here?” His voice trembled slightly, filled with both hope and desperation.
Then Jesus, looking at me, didn’t speak immediately. He simply gazed at me, and in His gaze, I felt something shift. For the first time in years, I felt like I mattered. That maybe, just maybe, there was more to my life than my broken body.
And then, He spoke.
“Son, your sins are forgiven,” He said, His voice soft yet full of authority.
The words hit me like a wave. I had come here expecting to be healed physically, expecting to be able to walk again, but instead, Jesus addressed the thing I had been running from my entire life. My guilt. My anger. My shame. He wasn’t just healing my body—He was healing my soul.
For a moment, I couldn’t process it. My sins are forgiven? But I could feel it deep within me. The burden I had carried for so long was beginning to lift.
But I heard the murmurs from the crowd. I saw the skeptical faces of the Pharisees. “Who does this man think He is?” one of them muttered. “Only God has the power to forgive sins.”
I wanted to shout back, to tell them that they were wrong, that this man was more than just a healer. But before I could say anything, Jesus turned toward the crowd.
“Which is easier,” He asked, “to say, ‘Your sins are forgiven,’ or to say, ‘Get up and walk’?”
The Pharisees didn’t answer. They were too busy grumbling to respond. Jesus continued, His voice rising.
“But that you may know that the Son of Man has authority on earth to forgive sins,” He said, His eyes never leaving me. “I say to you, get up, take your mat, and go home.”
And that was when it happened.
I felt something I hadn’t felt in years—a stirring, a tingling, a power surging through my legs. It was like the floodgates had opened, and life had returned to parts of me I thought were dead forever. Slowly, I pushed myself up. My legs shook, unsure if they could hold me. I took a step. And then another.
At first, there was silence. People couldn’t believe their eyes. The air was thick with disbelief. And then, as if a great wave of joy had overtaken them, they erupted into applause and shouts of amazement. It was like the rejoicing after a great victory in the games—like when a victorious chariot crosses the finish line, and the whole city cheers in jubilation. The crowd began to shout, to praise, to laugh. The atmosphere was charged with excitement and joy, as though every person in the room shared in the miracle.
“Look at him!” someone cried. “He’s walking!”
“Glory to God!” another shouted.
The room was filled with a rising chorus of voices, echoing through the walls. People were cheering, clapping, some even dancing. The joy was contagious, a celebration of something truly miraculous. I couldn’t help but smile as I walked, each step stronger than the last. I felt like I was floating—like I had just been reborn. It was as if all the pain, all the suffering, had disappeared with each step I took.
I could feel the eyes of the Pharisees burning into me, their faces twisted with disbelief and disdain. But I didn’t care. I had been healed. I had been forgiven. I was walking—no, running—away from my past. The joy in my heart was louder than their judgment.
“I was paralyzed,” I said, breathless but with a grin spread wide across my face. “But now, look at me—I’m walking! And it’s because of Him.”
I could feel the heat of the sun on my face, the ground firm beneath my feet, and my friends—Jonah, Levi, Amos, and Barak—cheering louder than anyone. They had carried me in, and now they stood beside me, lifting me up as I had once been carried.
The Pharisees could sneer. They could scoff. But nothing would take away the truth that I was standing tall, walking free. The miracle was real, and no one, not even their criticism, could steal the joy from my heart.
I walked out of that house, and the world was alive around me. I had been healed, not just in body but in spirit. Jesus had not only made me walk again, but He had shown me that there was more to life than the pain and the loss I had endured. The weight of bitterness, of despair, had been lifted. For the first time in years, I felt free. Free from my broken body. Free from the guilt and shame that had chained me to the ground for so long.
I looked around at the faces of those who had witnessed the miracle. There were still people shaking their heads in disbelief, still some who were questioning what they had seen, but there were others who were smiling, who were praising God, their faces filled with awe and wonder. I could see in their eyes the same thing I felt in my heart—hope.
And I couldn’t help but wonder how many others like me had felt hopeless, lost in their own pain, waiting for a miracle, waiting for a way out. Maybe they would find it the way I did, through faith in a man who not only had the power to heal but also the power to forgive.
As I walked through the crowd, every step was like a victory. Every step was a declaration of what Jesus had done for me. I could see the people in the street staring at me, wide-eyed and astonished. I must have looked like a madman, grinning and walking with a spring in my step, but I didn’t care. The world felt different now. It was full of possibility.
My friends cheered and walked beside me, their joy overflowing. “We knew it! We knew He would heal you!” Barak said, his voice full of excitement.
“Can you believe this?” Jonah laughed, shaking his head. “We brought you here on a stretcher, and now look at you, walking like nothing ever happened!”
I couldn’t help but laugh along with them, and the sound of our laughter blended with the joyous clamor around us. People were still whispering, still marveling at the impossible. And for the first time, I understood what it meant to truly be alive.
But as I walked, I couldn’t help but glance back at the house where Jesus was still speaking to the crowd, still teaching, still offering hope. I knew then that my life would never be the same. The healing of my body was only the beginning. Jesus had shown me that there was more to this world than pain, than brokenness, than the limits I had placed on myself. There was a new life waiting for me, and all I had to do was embrace it.
And I would. I would follow Him, not just with my legs but with my heart.
For the first time in years, I had hope again. I had faith.
And I would never let it go.
