edgar-mitchell

Down and In 103
as though she had been through major surgery. His prescription for nourishment
was grape juice and broth. As I sat there in the chair observing,
there was the hope that I’d just witnessed the extraordinary. I wanted something
to have happened, but at the same time I tried to be the detached,
clinical observer, and not let my expectations soar. In any case, I didn’t have
to wait long for the results. At 6 o’clock the following morning my mother
came rushing to my room, exclaiming, “Son, I can see, I can see!”
Without pausing to let me come to my senses, she proceeded to demonstrate
her claim by reading from her thumb-worn Bible with glasses in
hand. Then once again she said more quietly, “I can see. Praise the Lord, l
can see!” Dropping her glasses to the floor, she ground the thick lenses
into shards under the heel of her shoe. Needless to say, I was impressed.
I am not, by this account, nor with any other anecdotal story, attempting
to convince the doubtful. That can only happen when the open-minded
skeptic sets out for himself or herself to view (or better, to experience)
such peculiar phenomena (at least peculiar to the Western mind), and
conducts a careful investigation, unbiased by traditional interpretations.
This wasn’t science, but as far as I was concerned, it indicated where I
personally needed to probe more thoroughly. All I can say is that it absolutely
did happen in just this way.
Afterward I experienced the deep-down astonishment that arises from
witnessing the extraordinary. This was an event I couldn’t explain, but I
couldn’t deny it either. I knew my mother’s reaction was authentic, and she
hadn’t been duped about her own sight. She proceeded to drive home
alone, several hundred miles, without her glasses.
After this episode I was sufficiently impressed, so I invited Norbu to
Houston for a visit so that I might learn a few things from him myself. He
arrived a few weeks later to stay many months, during which time I came
to know not only Norbu the healer, but Norbu the man. What I learned
was notably unremarkable. He wasn’t especially complex, just a fellow
with a peculiar capacity to heal that he couldn’t adequately explain.
A few days after returning home I learned another lesson that I wouldn’t
soon forget. After going about her routine for several days with nearly
perfect vision, unassisted by contacts or eyeglasses, my mother called one
day to ask whether or not Norbu was a Christian. His name was clearly
derived from an Asian culture, which she suspected didn’t likely coincide
with her beloved faith. Though I didn’t want to tell her, she was adamant.
She absolutely wanted to know the faith of the man who’d allowed her to
see again. Reluctantly, and perhaps ominously, I told her Norbu was in
fact not a Christian, and the moment I did, the deep pain of regret was
clear in her voice.
Her new sight was not the work of the Lord, she insisted, but that of
the darker forces of this world. She was absolutely certain that Norbu,