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Roy Delfines's story was only one of many； I grew up in a tradition of miracles and healings。 I grew up believing in gris…gris； as well （only； up in the hills we said it to rhyme with kiss…kiss）： stump…water for warts； moss under your pillow to ease the heartache of lost love； and； of course； what we used to call haints … but I did not believe John Coffey was a gris…gris man。 I had looked into his eyes。 More important；' I had felt his touch。 Being touched by him was like being touched by some strange and wonderful doctor。
I helped it； didn't I？
That kept chiming in my head； like a snatch of song you can't get rid of； or words you'd speak to set a spell。
I helped it； didn't I？
Except he hadn't。 God had。 John Coffey's use of 〃I〃 could be chalked up to ignorance rather than pride； but I knew … believed； at least … what I had learned about healing in those churches of Praise Jesus； The Lord Is Mighty； piney…woods amen corners much beloved by my twenty…two…year…old mother and my aunts： that healing is never about the healed or the healer； but about God's will。 For one to rejoice at the sick made well is normal； quite the expected thing； but the person healed has an obligation to then ask why … to meditate on God's will； and the extraordinary lengths to which God has gone to realize His will。
What did God want of me； in this case？ What did He want badly enough to put healing power in the hands of a child…murderer？ To be on the block； instead of at home； sick as a dog； shivering in bed with the stink of sulfa running out of my pores？ Perhaps； I was maybe supposed to be here instead of home in case Wild Bill Wharton decided to kick up more dickens； or to make sure Percy Wetmore didn't get up to some foolish and potentially destructive piec
