“Thinking Back”
Here it was — another Christmas had passed. It felt to Jimmy like Thanksgiving had just been yesterday. The years were moving faster now, at a pace almost too quick to comprehend.
They drop the ball every year in Times Square — and every year, Jimmy is there with the same three friends from high school: Keith, Frances, and Paul. It’s a ritual none of them truly enjoy anymore, but they go — for each other.
This year was different. This year, they had to help Paul to the event.
Thirty-five years they’d been doing this, and this was the first time one of them needed help. Paul’s doctors had given him six months, at best. The cancer had spread to his vital organs. They’d started chemotherapy, but the prognosis was grim.
On their way to the event, as usual, they reminisced about their high school years. It was always the same — Paul, the sharp-tongued voice of the debate team. Frances, the football team’s star quarterback. Jimmy held the line on defense, and Keith was the guy everyone turned to when schoolwork got tough.
They’d met at a victory party the night they blew out their rivals 52–0. That celebration went on until sunrise, and the four of them ended up in a group of seven who decided to go ice skating on the frozen pond behind Frances’ house.
The ice gave way under Frances’ feet.
Paul rushed to help when he heard the scream — but as he got close, he fell through too. Of the five still on the ice, only Jimmy and Keith dared to move. They knew they had to stay far enough back to avoid cracking the surface more, so they tied their coats together by the sleeves, made a lifeline, and tossed it to Paul, who had Frances in his arms and was trying to climb out.
They dragged them both to safety.
From that moment on, the four were inseparable.
Jimmy was halfway through telling the story when Paul interrupted.
“Stop here, Frances.”
Frances slowed the car, puzzled. There was a small church up ahead, still glowing with Christmas lights. It sat just outside the city limits and looked more like a cozy old house than a chapel.
Frances pulled into the long gravel driveway. “What are we doing here, buddy? You never were much of a church guy. Something change?”
Paul gave a half-hearted chuckle. Normally, Frances would be right — religion had never been his thing. But Cathy had been after him for months.
“It’s right on your way,” she told him again and again. “Since you’re so determined to go through with this trip, even if it means speeding things up… do this for me, honey.” Her voice had cracked on those last words. “Just stop by… for me.”
“I’d really appreciate it if you guys came with me,” Paul said as the car rolled to a stop.
The other three didn’t hesitate — they were all in.
They stepped up to the door and knocked. Just like Cathy had described, an older gentleman answered. He was dressed in full liturgical attire, as if he’d just stepped away from the altar.
He greeted the four men warmly and ushered them inside.
Once they entered, he extended a hand. “Father Jerome,” he said.
Paul nodded. He already knew the name — Cathy had mentioned it a hundred times. She had been adamant that the others come along. Strangely, though, she never said why.
Father Jerome led the group to a quiet room at the back of the church. Once inside, he turned to them with a gentle but firm presence.
“I’m the head priest here,” he said. “Cathy has been a faithful member of our congregation for years. Over the last three months, since she confided in me about Paul’s condition, we’ve all been praying for you.”
He motioned them into the sanctuary and had all four sit in the front pew. Then, standing behind the pulpit, he opened his Bible and began a special sermon.
“In the Epistle of James, chapter 5, verse 14,” he read aloud, “it says:
‘Is anyone among you sick? Let them call the elders of the church to pray over them and anoint them with oil in the name of the Lord.’
Then he continued:
‘And the prayer offered in faith will make the sick person well; the Lord will raise them up. If they have sinned, they will be forgiven.’”
He turned a few more pages, his voice steady and sure.
“From the Book of Exodus, chapter 15, verse 26:
‘I am the LORD, who heals you.’”
The crowd chanted in unison—
“Ten, nine, eight…”
Frances adjusted his scarf, glancing to his right. Jimmy stood tall, hands in his coat pockets. Keith sipped hot cocoa, his glasses fogged slightly from the cold.
And Paul?
Paul stood between them, joy and delight filled his smile—gray covered his beard, he was alive.
“…three, two, one—Happy New Year!”
Cheers erupted. Confetti swirled in the Manhattan sky.
They hugged like they did every year, shoulder to shoulder, hearts full—not just for the new year, but for all the years.
Paul looked up toward the sky, remembering 20 years ago, of a little church outside the city, , of a wife’s quiet plea, and a priest who had once whispered:
“I am the Lord who heals you.”
He didn’t say anything to the others.
He didn’t have to.