My mom was deaf. On three different occasions in the 1970s, Vestal Goodman laid her hands on my mom’s ears and prayed that she would get her hearing back.
She never did.
I asked mommy once why, and she said maybe because she was happy being deaf and didn’t need to be “healed” of anything.
When we were little, we were tasked to be her interpreter. My least favorite was in church. Instead of getting to go to Junior Church, I had to stay in the main sanctuary and interpret the sermon for her.
I remember the last time that she ever asked for me to interpret was at the First Baptist Church in Sorrento, Florida because that afternoon she sat me down and told me that Gilligan, Mary Ann, and the Skipper weren’t in the Bible…
