We were gathered around the dining table, ready to bow our heads. Joyce had invited me to give thanks but her son John was so eager. His hand shot up as if in school.

"Oh Mum, can I pray? Please. Please."

"Of course you can, John." She looked at me with an apologetic nod and smiled. I grinned my reply. The table was sparse with food but laden with love in this blue-collar home in North Wales. Outside the weather was fierce; inside a coal fire roared. The whole family was new to this Christian faith and their fervor was rich with simplicity.

Four-year-old John began his prayer.

"Jesus, thank You that You love me. I love You so much. Amen." I choked back emotion and took a deep breath before the 'Amen' sighed away.

John was four years old and already enlisted as a soldier in silent combat for his life. The total absence of hair on his head made his face seem babyish and round. A Mickey Mouse baseball cap framed innocent eyes. Two skirmishes with chemo had proved John's remarkable courage and resilience to be greater than many adults could fathom. John sat beside my son Chris, both four years old — John bloated and pale; Chris robust, with a mop of dark hair. The difference between them was staggering. Still, John showed not the slightest sign of self-pity.

As the months passed, John's prognosis became increasingly bleak. Leukemia was winning. His healthy blood cell count was diminishing as the cancer ravenously destroyed his blood, marrow and bones. He hovered just above the chasm between life and death.

Joyce and Derek faithfully brought their son to worship, a 25-mile trip each way from the border of Wales into the heart of Cheshire, England. But their faith was so young and buoyant, the trip seemed a small thing to them.

Joyce came to me one Sunday night after the service.

"Pastor, John is slipping from us. The doctor does not give much hope for his recovery. Can we have a special time of prayer for him? Next Sunday night? He goes for blood work the following day."

The congregation had been praying for many months, but I invited everyone to spend the week in earnest prayer for John's healing.

It was arranged that during the worship service Joyce would come forward in proxy for

John who would remain in the next room for the children's program. We would anoint Joyce with oil (as Scripture commands) and lay hands on her on John's behalf.

The evening arrived and a sense of promise hung in the air. There was no emotionalism, no hocus-pocus. She came and we prayed. I took the small vial of olive oil and put a drop on her forehead. A handful of men and women surrounded her, each of them putting a hand of faith on the person in front of him or her. A lacework of prayers was being crocheted together from one hand to another — one heart to another — until the entire room was as one.

Joyce remained still. This was a holy moment. No one shouted. No one became erratic. My prayer was simple. I prayed for John's complete healing, that his blood cells would be restored overnight, that he would not have to face chemotherapy any longer, and that God would receive all the glory.

Then we sang a gentle hymn and the benediction was given. Joyce promised to call me the next morning after John's blood work had been returned.

As the room cleared, a man waited to speak with me. A young believer like most of our congregation, Stan asked, "Pastor, is that what you call a healing service?"

"No, Stan. I call it an 'anointing service.'" I re-read James 5:14-15 to him, "Is any one of you sick? He should call the elders of the church to pray over him and anoint him with oil in the name of the Lord. And the prayer offered in faith will make the sick person well; the Lord will raise him up."

"But it was so calm and quiet."

"We aren't asked to do anything but that. God is the healer, not us."

Stan moved closer and lowered his voice. "We weren't alone tonight. He was here."

"Who was here, Stan?"

"Jesus. You know me, Pastor. My veins are filled with ice. I was the last one in the room to stand and place my hand on the person in front of me."

"And …" (I was curious about what Stan was going to say.)

"… another hand was placed on my shoulder. I swear!"

"Don't swear, Stan. What do you mean?"

"I felt a man's hand placed on my shoulder and when I turned around, no one was visible. But the impression of his hand was still felt." Stan whispered, "You probably think I'm crazy, but it's true."

I knew Stan's veins flowed with ice. He was usually a monument of stone. But somehow I believed him that night.

"Now don't go telling anyone. They'll think I've gone loopy," he added.

I promised nothing.

All Monday morning, my mind ceaselessly returned to John and his results. When Joyce called, her voice was calm and firm.

"The doctor said, 'John's blood cells are as perfect as yours, Mrs. Davis.' Those where his words! There was no sign of leukemia. How about that, Pastor? Both my son's and my blood cells are the same. Healing by proxy. Like a miraculous transfusion."

I was stunned at the detail of God's handiwork. But the reality is that John was healed of leukemia that night through faith generated by his mother and God's people together. No screaming, no demands.

John is 27 years old now, and still going strong. Meanwhile, I have kept "Stoic Stan's" secret for 23 years and I think it's been buried long enough. Jesus met us in our moment of faith, and I know that Stan, for one, will swear to it.