Delia was standing. Her face was a mask of agony and ecstasy. Her legs shook. The knot in her spine screamed. But she was vertical.
He grabbed her hand. His grip was strong, almost too strong. He pulled her to her feet. For one horrifying second, Delia’s knees buckled, and Martha thought she would fall. But Copeland held her, his arm like an iron bar around her waist. The worship band struck a single, swelling chord.
As they left the arena, Kenneth Copeland was already in his private jet, the runway lights of Tulsa shrinking behind him. He was not thinking of Delia. He was thinking of the offering—the harvest of desperate hearts—and the next city, and the next stage, and the next wheelchair waiting to become a testimony. kenneth copeland healing
But her mother was smiling. For the first time in eleven years, Delia was smiling not with hope, but with the memory of having been touched by a king. And Martha realized that was the real miracle—not the spine, but the smile. The comfort of the lie, made briefly, beautifully real by a man who had convinced himself first.
“Sickness,” he said, his voice a low Texas gravel that poured out of the massive speakers, “is a lie from the pit of hell. And you don’t negotiate with a lie. You don’t ask nicely for a lie to leave. You command it.” Delia was standing
“Take a step,” Copeland commanded.
The cameras swung. A giant screen showed Delia’s face—her wrinkled cheeks, her startled, hopeful eyes. The crowd gasped, because that’s what crowds do. The knot in her spine screamed
Copeland stopped pacing. He tilted his head, as if listening to a voice only he could hear. He pointed a long, manicured finger directly toward Delia.