In the Wilderness by Kim Barnes

knocked him flat. It was this preacher who called me out one night after the sermon, after Sister Baxter had prophesied in tongues and Sister Johnson had interpreted God’s message, a message of warning lest Satan rally his army, jealous of our praise. Several women had fallen under the Spirit and lay on the floor weeping—others less stunned draped the women’s legs with lap cloths to ensure modesty.
    He found me, head bowed, a little sleepy, muttering my prayers and unprepared for his attention. The voices quieted as he called me to the altar. I stepped away from my seat and made my way toward the front, weaving through the prostrated bodies. His eyes were serious and piercing, as though there were something I was hiding, as though he could read in my face what had roused in him the need to clasp my head between his sweaty palms and drive me to my knees.
    I felt no fear. I felt the roughness of his hands and the eyes of the church upon me, but I believed in this man of the Lord. I had seen him heal the Paxson boy, seen the short leg lengthen in the preacher’s cupped hand. What wound or fault he might find in me I could not discern, but I waited calmly to be free of it, to be made newly whole.
    “What is your name, child?”
    “Kim,” I whispered.
    “Sister Kim, God has brought us here together tonight for a very special reason. Do you know what that is?” He let his gaze sweep the room. “Sister Kim walks among you with a gift. Sister Kim, do you know what that gift is?”
    I heard the voices behind me: “Yes, Lord!” “Thank you, Jesus!” I thought I heard my mother crying. I shook my head,filled with a growing curiosity as though a stranger were about to read my palm, uncover a family secret. I steadied myself against the weight of his hands.
    “You, my daughter, have the gift of healing. You are a healer!” Behind me the praise grew louder. The room felt suddenly hot and I wished for an open door, a window letting in the cool night air. His hands were heavier than my legs could stand and I fell, sweat trickling down my sides.
    Sister Lang pounded out chords on the upright. I don’t remember the hymn or what other hands came to bless me. I only remember my knees on the cold wood floor and wondering what my father thought then, what would be expected of me in the days to come. I wondered if Luke had witnessed my anointing. I wondered what part of him I might touch.
    The next Sunday I sat at the table of Brother and Sister Baxter. They ran cattle outside of Weippe, an even smaller town than Pierce, twenty miles southwest. There were others there my age, children still wobbly in their manners at the table’s far end, eating silently while the adults pondered the day’s sermon and praised the wife’s fried chicken. If there was a lull in the conversation, if the discussion had turned to the past week’s revival, I don’t recall. I only know I felt a sudden pain, as though a nail were being driven into my ear. I whimpered and my fork clattered to my plate.
    I had never had an ear infection, had never felt the kind of pain I now felt, both throbbing and sharp. I remembered the missionary’s words, and with absolute certainty stood up and announced, “Someone here has an earache.”
    Looking from one unperceiving face to another, I pressed my hand to the right side of my head.
    “Someone’s ear hurts.”
    I stood with my neck bent to ease the pressure. At the other end of the table a woman let out a single sob. It was Sister Baxter.
    I moved from my child’s place and walked to her chair. She bowed her head, softly crying, and I placed my hand on her right ear. I could feel the heat there, the drumming pain. Others joined me, clasping my shoulders, touching my back.
    “Dear Lord, our sister has a need. She needs you, Jesus.” My words were met with a chorus of
amens
and
hallelujahs
. I drew a breath. My eleven-year-old awkwardness was gone. The words flowed.
    “We ask that you take this pain from