Recently, I met a friend for lunch at a local soup and sandwich place. While she ordered, my name was called to pick up my food. A stranger, standing next to me, offered to help. I accepted. She set my tray on the table, then went back to wait in line with her husband.
     I should share something with you: I use a cane. Now you understand why a complete stranger would ask me (a seemingly healthy woman, if not for the prop) if she could carry my tray of food.
     A half hour later, as my friend and I finished eating, this same woman appeared at our table and stood at my side. She couldn't help but notice my cane, she said. Assuming she wanted to know where I purchased the lovely walking stick with the curved tortoise-shell handle, I was about to say, "The Walking Store at the Mall of America," when she made her intention known. She wanted to pray for me.
     I thought she meant to write down my name and pray for me in the privacy of her own home. Or put my name on a prayer list at her church. Even so, my mind rushed with things to say. Not at the top of the list was, "Sure, go ahead. I'd like that."
     When she asked about the cane, I looked around, wondering who I could foist her off on. She began to talk about a trip she and her husband had taken to another country; they had participated in events that can only be called healing extravaganzas.
     She spoke of people throwing aside walking aids, one woman getting out of a wheelchair she no longer needed. As she went on, it became clear: she intended to pray for me right there—at the tall table, next to the beverage dispenser, in the crowded restaurant at lunch time.
     At her mention of 1200-1500 people being cured, of witnessing people throwing away their crutches, my friend asked me, "What have you got to lose?" My brain began to do battle. One part said, "Exactly. What do you have to lose?" Another part answered, "Your dignity."
     "Are you going to touch me?" I asked
     When she said she didn't have to, my friend asked again, "What have you got to lose?"
     The woman prayed quietly (Thank you, God, for that blessing.) and when she asked that I be made well, I pictured myself casting the cane aside, kicking up my heels like Ginger Rogers, and dancing my way to the parking lot.
     Two-stepping, I'm not, but I did gain a lot from this experience. It made me think about the other people in the restaurant. How many of them have their own cross to bear? Suffer from heart disease, cancer, or mental illness? Are out of work or mourning the loss of a loved one?
     If I were to come across that woman again, I would tell her not to pick and choose the people she prays for based on outward appearances, like canes or disfigurement, because everyone deserves a quiet prayer.
     This much I've learned: everybody has something.