The Gift of Healing: How a Chance Meeting at the Bus Stop Saved My Daughter
When my husband Edward and I welcomed our baby girl, the entire hospital staff couldn’t stop admiring her. She was a picture-perfect child—tiny with delicate features, a button nose, perfectly shaped ears, and eyes like bluebells, clear and wise, as if they already understood the world.
At first, everything was fine. By two months, she could hold her head up, and by four, she was trying to stand. We celebrated every milestone, making plans for her future, unaware of the darkness looming. At six months, a strange, hard lump appeared on her neck. Doctors shrugged—no one had answers. We tried compresses, ointments, and endless appointments, but nothing worked. She grew irritable, barely ate, and cried through the nights. I rocked her until dawn while the doctors insisted her blood tests were normal.
Desperate, I turned to folk healers, but it was no use. Hope was slipping away.
Then, when she was eighteen months old, a miracle happened. We were on our way to visit my mother, waiting at the bus stop when a woman approached—sturdy, with a crown of braided hair, wearing a floral dress. Her eyes were kind, her presence warm. She looked at my daughter and sighed.
“Poor little love. And poor you, dear. She doesn’t eat or sleep, does she?”
I nodded. She continued, “I heal children like her. She won’t last much longer. If you want to save her, come to my house before sunset. I’m Mrs. Catherine. Bring a dozen fresh eggs.”
With that, she walked away, as if sensing my hesitation. Doubt gnawed at me—another charlatan? But something whispered I’d regret it if I didn’t go.
My mother urged me, “Try. If she asks for too much, walk away.”
I bought the eggs and found her cottage—green shutters, flower beds, a vineyard in the yard, and a little girl playing in a playpen.
“You came,” Mrs. Catherine said. “I didn’t want to push, but my heart wouldn’t let me turn away. That’s Sophie—brought here from Liverpool, barely walking. Now look at her.”
Sophie clapped, grinning, trying to stand on wobbly legs.
Inside the kitchen, Mrs. Catherine rolled the eggs over my daughter’s body, murmuring, “Out with the ache, the pain, the sickness—leave this innocent child.” The eggs were cracked into glasses of water. Under the sunlight, crosses formed on the yolks, and bubbles rose like tiny fountains in the whites.
“See?” she said. “This was meant to kill. But we’ll save her.”
“Who did this?” I asked.
“Best not to say. Let God judge. My duty is to heal.”
We did three ten-day treatments. The crosses faded, then the bubbles. My daughter improved—sleeping, eating, laughing. Her cheeks grew rosy.
“Do you eat the eggs?” I once asked.
“Heavens, no,” she laughed. “I feed them to the pigs. They fear nothing.”
She told me her gift came from her mother, who chose her over a jealous sister. “Kindness matters more than power,” she said.
By the end, Sophie was walking. Her father sent crates of strawberries, honey, and fish in gratitude. “See how they repay us?” Mrs. Catherine mused. “But I keep the children in my heart.”
Finally, the bubbles vanished. My daughter was healed.
Now she’s nineteen—bright, beautiful, studying languages and art, dreaming of London. Sometimes, I still pinch myself, amazed she’s here. Every time I pass that bus stop, I whisper, “Thank you.”
Because Mrs. Catherine didn’t just save my daughter. She saved my motherhood. My life. And in her quiet kindness, I learned that healing isn’t about magic—it’s about the courage to trust, and the grace to give without reward.
