Two years ago I went on a pilgrimage to Cracow to see Deacon Philippe Madre, the French healer, who for many years has placed his special charism at the service of the Church. My main reason for going was to pray for my father who was ill with cancer. He had undergone stomach surgery just a month before. His prognosis was very bad. After the operation he weighed 40 kilograms and had a high fever. All indications were that he would not live long. I was worried for Dad — as much for his soul as for his body, for he and religion had never seen eye to eye. I prayed to God that before dying my father would make a good confession and experience a conversion. I wept all through the healing service with Philippe Madre. The tears poured out as I listened to what he had to say about God’s love for us. God really did care about us. He loved each one of us, even the worst sinner. All this caused me to weep like a baby.

My purpose in going was to pray for my father, but God gave me much more than I bargained for. I returned home to find my father feeling much better. His condition improved by the day. Now, as I write, he is in perfectly good health. He putters away in the garden, goes to church regularly, listens to and prays with Radio Maria. Though part of his stomach is missing, he eats everything that we eat.

It was at this healing service that a young man — God bless him! — handed me a copy of Love One Another Magazine. I have to admit that I wasn’t all that keen about reading your magazine, but when I got to the personal testimonies written by your young readers, something happened. It was as though a hard shell around my heart had broken — a shell that had prevented God’s love from flowing inside. It was then that I began the daily practice of saying the Chaplet of Divine Mercy.

Here I’d like to touch on a particular problem. I wish to warn your readers against so-called “touch healers.” Around the time my father came down with cancer, we had one such healer set up shop in our town. He started off by treating back ailments. I must say he was very good at this, although it was more out of curiosity that I first went to see him. My friends had told me about the healing value of bioenergetic massages. Though I felt very good after my visit, there was nothing to indicate that I would ever again seek this man’s services. I should add that he was a very nice, polite young man who inspired trust.

About three months after my first visit, I began to suffer from headaches. Not just ordinary ones; there was something very strange about these. Day and night the pain never let up. Painkillers had no effect. I also developed stomachaches. I couldn’t eat. The smell of cooking brought on nausea. In addition to these physical ailments, I began experiencing obsessive dark thoughts. I went to see my doctor, who told me I was suffering from a neurosis. He put me on an herbal remedy, but these also proved to be entirely ineffective. It occurred to me then that the bioenergetic healer might be able to help. He told me there was nothing seriously the matter with me, and that he would heal me as long as I followed his instructions. First he told me to write out the Lord’s Prayer on a card, have it blessed at church, and then carry it with me always. He told me to see him again after the Easter holidays. I was very naïve. My faith was still weak and I placed blind trust in this man. After the holidays I returned for more “treatment.” This time he had told me to bring a red ballpoint pen which no one had touched (the absurdity of his request did not strike me then). The healer asked me for my date of birth, scribbled something down on a card, and then consulted his notebook. He booked me for another appointment in three days. That session ended with him giving me a mysterious card that I was to wear on my head for forty days. After that I was to throw it in the river, facing backwards, and then go home without looking back or stopping to talk to anyone. Stupid me! I followed his instructions to the letter. The upshot of these “medical procedures” was that I felt quite well for about a year.

But then my nightmare really began — literally. Not only did my old ailments return with a vengeance, but I began having nightmares as well. Monstrous creatures with disfigured faces filled my dreams. They were constantly pursuing me. I went to sleep in fear and woke up in fear. I thought I was going mad. I felt I was very sick and would soon die. I was in constant fear of fainting and being carted off to hospital. I constantly imagined something bad would happen to me. I was afraid to leave the house. Just to get to work required superhuman effort; and, once there, I was unable to concentrate. I felt my memory was going. Constantly depressed and irritable, I was unable to cope with life. All my thoughts centered on death. My loved ones couldn’t make head or tail of it. To make matters worse, my healer had left the country for a while. At that time I was convinced that he was the only person who could help me. In the meantime, I visited my doctor; but the tranquilizers he prescribed had no effect. Or rather they did: they made me feel worse. I thought I was finished. There was no help for me.

But there was Someone, who cared, who loved me very, very much throughout all this time — Jesus Christ, whose name I invoked every day at 3:00 p.m. in the Chaplet of Divine Mercy. That prayer helped me to endure that suffering and those dark, obsessive thoughts. Just at this time, I happened to meet a woman in a train who told me about her bad experiences associated with her dabbling in cartomancy. She suggested I read a book entitled Confessions of an Exorcist. Having read it, I became convinced that through my own stupidity I had fallen prey to the Evil One. I began reading Holy Scripture and other books on the subject of evil spirits and their baneful influence. I started fasting on bread and water every Friday, prayed more diligently, and went to Mass every day to receive Holy Communion. I joined battle with the Evil One. In the confessional I confessed that I had placed my trust in my “healer” instead of seeking help from God. My struggle continued…

My pains grew now weaker, now stronger. Sometimes they would go away, but then they would return, especially when I had to go to church. At such times I would feel dizzy and be in fear of fainting. But I refused to give up the struggle, and continued seeking help — this time from my true Healer, Jesus.

I take this occasion to thank my sister who invited me to this walking pilgrimage. Thanks to it, I was able to meet Father Jan. He has taught me how to read Holy Scripture, how to pray, how persevere in the Lord and listen to His voice.

It is now a month and one day since the pilgrimage and my complete recovery. You might call it a resurrection, for I was dead through sin, through my own stupidity, and now I am alive.