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Every other Tuesday, Maria Lopez came to clean my house.

Recommended by one of my co-workers, Maria always arrived like a round bubble of energy determined to restore order to my universe, scrubbing as though it were an act of worship. Leaving no corner untouched, things sparkled until her return.

As we became acquainted, I learned that Maria was a pastor's daughter from Peru who had no family in the United States. I had only been a Christian a few years and appreciated Maria's enthusiastic faith. She prayed out loud while she cleaned, and sang praise songs in Spanish while she scrubbed. She praised Jesus everywhere she went.

It's hard to say how old Maria was. Short, squat, and seemingly ageless, with a large, pockmarked face, she admitted being mocked by other passengers on the bus, especially when she prayed or sang.

"They say Maria eez crazy, Meessus," she said, picking up the broom. "They laugh at Maria, yes, but when they are afraid, they come to me. 'Maria,' they cry, 'you pray for me. Pray for me, Maria, tell your God he watch for me.' "

"And do you pray for them, Maria?"

"Oh, yes. I pray and my God, he listen. I pray for you, too, Meessus."

When she didn't arrive the next day, I called. No one answered the phone.

This is so unlike her, I thought. She's so reliable. There must be a good reason.

On the third day, a nurse called to say Maria was at the hospital.

"She was worried that you'd be angry because she hadn't come to work," the nurse said. "She wanted me to let you know where she was."

Alarmed, I cut some flowers and drove to Northridge Hospital to find out what was wrong.

I found Maria sitting up in bed, rocking back and forth with her head encased in a heavy iron cage resting on her shoulders. Her eyes were closed, and tears streamed down her cheeks. Touching her arm gently, I held out the flowers. She clutched them to her chest.

"What's that around your head, Maria?"

"Oooh, Meessus," she moaned, touching the iron contraption, "it is the torture of Satan."

Puzzled, I turned to the nurse. "Yes," she explained, "It's called a halo. It's screwed and bolted directly into the skull in four different places. It isn't pleasant."

Just the thought nauseated me. "How long must you wear it?" I asked Maria.

"Five months, my doctor say, maybe. But Meessus, you tell him Maria, she no live five months with thees in her head. She die. You tell him, yes?"

"I'll talk to him, Maria. Anything else I can do for you?"

"Sure, Maria. What passage do you want to hear?"

"Juan. Juan catorce."

I opened the sacred book and started reading John 14.

"No dejen que se angustie su corazón. Confíe en Dios; confíe tambíen en mí." (Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God; trust also in me.)

"Amen. Amen. Hallelujah Jesus!" Maria's interjections punctuated my reading. Hearing God's Word sent her into an ecstasy which, for a moment, transcended her pain. "Amen. Gracias, Jésus." She prayed and muttered a few minutes more. "Gracias, Meessus, you bring joy to Maria."

"Keep your eyes on him, Maria, not on your pain. I'll be back to see you in a couple of days."

Out in the corridor, I found Maria's doctor. "Why is she wearing that hideous device?" I asked him.

"Because, to put it simply, if she didn't," he said, "her head will fall off."

"What!"

"Maria has cancer. Her neck bones have degenerated to the point where they can no longer support her head."

"Can they be repaired? Or regenerated?" He shook his head gravely.

"Oooh," I groaned. "That means … "

"Yes, it means we can't ever take it off." The doctor finished my sentence. "Maria will have to get used to living with it."

During one visit, months after being admitted to the hospital, Maria clutched my hands and whispered, "God tells Maria it won't be long. Soon, he say, we take this off."

My heart sank. Only the hope of removing the cruel contraption was keeping her alive. "Maria dear, Jesus is merciful. But if it turns out to be longer than you hope, he will give you a way to live with it."

"No, no. Jesus say it will be gone. My neck is strong now. I feel. You tell doctor I need new x-ray, yes? I ask him many days, but he no listen to me. They no like people who have no money, Meessus. He no give x-ray."

I promised to speak to the doctor. Maria sat back and smiled. "You read now. Juan catorce."

Before I left the hospital, I stopped at the nurses' desk to ask how much longer Maria would be there. A nurse said they were preparing papers to release Maria from the hospital.

"How can you let her go?" I said incredulously. "She can't manage by herself!" The nurse shrugged.

Of course. I realized what was happening. Maria doesn't have insurance or enough money to stay in the hospital. That's why they're releasing her. But where will Maria go? How will she make any money to live on?

Touching the halo she cried, "You take this torture from me! I no leave with this!"

I confronted the doctor in the hallway. "When will she have the x-ray?"

"There is really no point," he insisted. "Nothing has changed."

"The woman is suffering horribly," I pleaded. "If the x-ray makes her feel better, it's reason enough."

As the doctor walked away, I couldn't contain myself. "Is this the way you'd treat your mother?" I called after him. "Or is it just the way the hospital deals with the indigent?"

He stopped and faced me. "That has nothing to do—"

"Let's be honest, Doctor," I said. "It has everything to do with it. This has been an eye-opening experience—one the newspapers may find interesting, too."

With lips pressed tightly against his teeth, the doctor hissed, "We'll schedule the x-ray the day after tomorrow."

When I told Maria the news, she was ecstatic. She grabbed my hands in thanks and wouldn't let go.

"Why not, Maria? Have you had your x-ray?"

"Yes. But I stay until they take this off." She rolled her eyes toward the halo.

Hasn't anyone told Maria what will happen when they take the halo off? It was my turn to panic. I can't tell her. Her despair will be overwhelming.

I cornered the doctor. "She won't leave until you take the halo off. What do we do?"

"We'll take it off," he replied.

"You said her head will roll off without it!"

Suddenly, Maria's doctor began acting strangely. He looked left and right, then muttered in low tones, "It won't roll. The x-ray we took this morning indicated her neck bones have regenerated."

"You said that was impossible."

"It is impossible."

I shook my head, confused. "Were the original x-rays a mistake?"

"Not at all. They're here for anyone to see."

"So?"

Before answering, the doctor sighed. "So there are things I can't explain. Her bones have regenerated and they are strong enough to hold her head. That's all I know."

"Doctor! Is this a miracle?"

"I don't know about miracles, that's Maria's department. She tells me Jesus healed her."

"Hah!" I couldn't keep from laughing. "If you didn't, I guess he did!"

After being released from the hospital, Maria decided to return to Peru. She had a new mission.

"He heal me, Meessus!" she exclaimed. "Jesus no care I cannot pay, he make me new! I go tell the people about Jesus."

I gave Maria a fond farewell hug. Even she didn't know what the future held, but she was certain of one thing: she was in the hands of her caring heavenly Father.

A Christian Reader original article.

Copyright © 2001 by the author or Christianity Today International/Today's Christian magazine (formerly Christian Reader).
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