The impossible

Things happened that we couldn’t explain—and still cannot.

A word

Taking care of Naomi took its toll on us. It was physically and mentally exhausting. Every day followed the same pattern, from early morning until late at night: feeding, drinking, medication, and exercises in between. It felt like the movie Groundhog Day.

The brutal reality was that Naomi, from the neck down, was unable to use her body. The exercises were necessary to keep her flexible, prevent her muscles from contracting, and—hopefully—help her regain some control over her limbs.

We did the best we could, for Naomi and for Sienna, which wasn't easy. It was heartbreaking to see both our girls’ lives so deeply affected.

To support us, we had hired Mely, a caregiver from Indonesia who lived with us. She was dedicated and resourceful, and cared for Noami with genuine concern. Having her with us also gave us some breathing space.

I used that time to reflect and to explore things I didn’t yet understand—like the gift of tongues. I didn’t really know how to use it, or what it was meant to accomplish, but I tried anyway.

What puzzled me was how to begin or activate it. So far, when it happened, it happened spontaneously.

That was the case one evening when Naomi and I were watching a testimony on YouTube. A woman spoke about how the Holy Spirit would sometimes give her Scripture verses, which reminded me of Jester. She didn’t explain how this worked, and throughout the video I found myself wondering about it.

After a while, I paused the video, picked Naomi up, and carried her around the room to ease her discomfort. I softly sang a hymn about the Holy Spirit and then found myself praying in tongues. I say praying, but I’m not sure that’s the right word.

This time it was different.

Instead of the familiar, indistinct sounds, I clearly heard myself repeating a single name: Elijah. Over and over again. What struck me was how distinct the three syllables were, even though the name is not easy to pronounce repeatedly.

When it stopped, I wondered what it meant.

I laid Naomi, who had fallen asleep, back in her bed, picked up my phone and searched for “Elijah” in my Bible app. The first result that came up was a story about when God sent Elijah to the city of Zarephath at the time of a severe famine.

There, he was to meet a widow who would provide for him. When Elijah found the widow, he asked her for water and bread but she told him she had almost nothing left—only a handful of flour in a jar and a little oil in a jug. She was about to prepare what would be the final meal for herself and her son.

Elijah told her not to be afraid. He asked her to do as she intended, but to prepare something for him first. He assured her that God would not let the flour run out, nor the oil fail, for the duration of the famine. And indeed, the jar was not emptied, and the jug did not run dry.

Later, the woman’s son fell ill and died. She was devastated. Elijah prayed, and God restored the boy to life. The chapter ends with the widow telling Elijah:

“Now I know that you are a man of God, and that the word of the Lord in your mouth is truth.” (1 Kings 17:24)

What stood out to me was the phrase “the word of the Lord in your mouth.” It felt like an affirmation that what I had just spoken had not come from me.

The story was about trust, obedience and God’s power to do what is humanly impossible. It gave me encouragement, which I gladly received. I needed it.

Out of bed

A few weeks later, something happened that left us puzzled.

It was the day of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary, celebrated each year on August 15.

Early that morning, Sienna woke to some of Naomi’s familiar high-pitched sounds. The girls shared a room, with Sienna’s bed on one side and Naomi’s on the other.

Still half asleep, Sienna glanced over at Naomi’s bed.

It was empty.

She got up and walked over.

Naomi lay curled up underneath the chair beside her bed.

It made no sense.

Had she fallen onto the tiled floor, she would almost certainly have bruised herself. Yet she had no marks. She wasn't distressed. She seemed completely at ease.

How she could have ended up under that chair at all was hard to grasp. Even Sienna, smaller at the time, struggled to crawl underneath it when she later tried to take the same position.

Stranger still, the pillow we always placed between Naomi’s legs at night was still perfectly in place.

To this day, we don’t understand how—and why—she got there.

Pondering

It wasn't the only impossible thing we encountered.

Several months later, a friend told us that Fr. Jeff, a priest from the Philippines, would be visiting Singapore. Our friend had told him about Naomi, and Fr. Jeff offered to come and pray over us.

When he visited, we spoke about Naomi’s condition and how drastically our lives had changed. Eventually, the conversation turned to the morning Sienna found Naomi under the chair. That led to an unexpected exchange:

“Did you notice anything else unusual lately?” Fr. Jeff asked.

“No,” I said. “Nothing like this before.”

“Nothing at all?” he asked, turning to Paulina.

She shook her head. “Nothing unusual.”

Mely, who had been listening from a distance, stepped forward and said she had seen something. One night, when she checked on Naomi, she had seen her floating above her bed.

“Okay,” Fr. Jeff said. “That’s something. Anything else?”

I was still processing the image of Naomi levitating when Mely continued, telling us that on another night, she had heard Naomi talking.

“Talking?” I asked. “When was this? What did she say?”

“I don’t know,” Mely replied. “She was talking with a man, but I couldn’t understand what they were saying.”

I stared at her. A man in the girls’ room in the middle of the night.

Given all I had experienced over the years, I wasn’t even all that surprised.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” I asked.

Mely was afraid we would think she was crazy.

Fr. Jeff then asked her what the man looked like.

She said she hadn’t seen his face clearly, but she remembered that he wore a cloak and was surrounded by a glow. She added that when she entered the room, the man immediately left.

“He went into your study and stayed there,” she said. “I didn’t want to follow him.”

Fr. Jeff suggested that the man might have been a prophet and asked if she could describe him more clearly.

I was about to ask him why he thought so, when Mely suddenly remembered something else.

“Oh,” she said, “and he was bald.”

Fr. Jeff nodded. “Then it may have been Elisha.”

He explained that Elisha is the only prophet in the Bible explicitly described as bald.

The moment he mentioned Elisha, I remembered that I had repeatedly spoken the name Elijah. I told him about it.

Fr. Jeff paused for a moment. “It sounds like you called on Elijah, and Elisha came instead,” he said. It was a possibility, given that Elijah was Elisha’s mentor, and that Elisha became his successor.

He then stood up and prayed over us. After staying a little longer, he left for his next appointment.

Afterwards, we didn’t speak of it again. Paulina preferred not to dwell on it, and Mely had nothing more to add. As for me, I added it to my growing list of things I didn’t understand.

My thoughts returned to Mary. As the mother of Jesus, she lived with much that was wondrous, unclear, unsettling and painful. Even she did not receive explanations for everything that happened around her son. Instead, she kept all these things and pondered them in her heart.

Slowly, I found myself following her example. Over time, the unanswered questions no longer unsettled me. I no longer felt the need to explain or resolve everything.

What remained was this: that God is with us, and that we can trust in him.

That was enough.

—Raphael