From Lore to Life: Grandpa’s Hands, A Channel of Divine Healing

Back in 1968 in Hovukhü village, Grandpa savoured a rich and satisfying meal that included an otter. Stories, whispered in Grandpa’s ears, said this was “an act that, according to local folklore, was believed to awaken a healing gift that magically allowed a person to heal people who experienced trouble after swallowing a fishbone and could not find relief.” I used to laugh when I was younger, thinking it was just an ancient tale, the kind that grows in the cracks between truth and hope.

Yet now, I clearly hear his words of wisdom: “The gift of healing comes from our creator, a free blessing, of course,” he said. He looked smaller than I remembered—his frame sunk deep into the mattress, a thin blanket barely hiding the way illness had carved hollows into his chest and arms. His skin clung to the bone like worn linen over driftwood, and each breath came with a quiet rattle like wind whispering through an old window.

But his hands—those hands—remained unchanged; veins like tree roots ran beneath the surface. The skin was cracked and dry, the fingers crooked with time, but when he reached out, there was still a certainty in their movement. As if they had not forgotten what they were made to do. On the 14th April 2025, late evening, a woman stood trembling at his bedside, clutching her throat. A fishbone lodged deep, panic rising in her eyes. Without lifting his head, Grandpa beckoned her closer. His finger, light as a feather, touched her neck just beneath the jaw, and he closed his eyes. He murmured a prayer under his breath, and the next thing I heard him recite was a scripture passage from the Bible—Mark 16:17-18. And when he pulled his hand away, the woman breathed a sigh of relief. His body was breaking, but those hands still remembered the promise they’d made long ago: to heal, with faith.

I’ll never forget it—the first time I saw Grandpa place his hands on someone to heal. It didn’t feel like something out of a story or movie. It was real, right in front of me. I didn’t understand what was happening, but I could feel it. A miracle, plain and simple. Not the kind with lightning or loud voices from the sky—but a quiet, powerful kind. In that moment, I felt something crack open inside me—not fear, not awe exactly, but a kind of remembering. Like my soul knew what was happening before my mind could name it. That encounter didn’t just stay with me—it called me, demanding ink, not to relive it but to release it. And so, I begin, “Isu (grandpa), when was the first time you helped someone with a fishbone?” and the questioning dragged on. His breathing was shallow; he stared at the ceiling for a moment, then turned to me with eyes clouded by time but bright with something else—memory.

“You know,” he said, smiling, “the first was a woman in her late 40s. When my story about eating an otter surfaced, she came seeking relief, and her curiosity was satisfied. I sometimes wonder if I ought to have kept a ledger—not for glory, but for remembrance. Yet the act was never meant for the pages of record or praise; it was a quiet offering, given without expectation. And so, I did not count the voices of thanks that came in return. Still, if numbers mattered, I believe they may have surpassed nineteen by now. I understood then: it was never about me; it was about the divine purpose that had settled over the strange gift I carried. This realisation didn’t come in a shout but as a gentle dawning, illuminating the path ahead. Every breath, every thought, every faithful action was simply a step toward glorifying my creator.”

From that moment onward, whenever someone swallowed a fishbone and could not find relief, they would come to Grandpa. He would offer a simple prayer—just quiet words of faith. And somehow, time after time, the suffering eased. His healing was not in his hands alone but in the deep and living faith that carried through every word he spoke.

Grandpa never sought recognition. For him, healing was about service, humility, and trust in a power greater than himself. Through his gift, he taught all of us that faith could move not just mountains but also the small, sharp troubles of everyday life. Today, as I remember him, I see more than just a healer of fishbone problems. I see a man whose life was a bridge between folklore and faith, between mystery and devotion—a living reminder that sometimes the greatest miracles are the quietest ones.

His laughter still echoes; his wisdom still guides. Though he walks beside me no more, his spirit lives on in every word.

[1] Lino K. Zhimomi has a Ph.D. in Education from Nagaland University, Meriema, and is currently studying for the Nagaland Public Service Commission exams.