The Man with Two Canes by Harold Selby That thou
shouldst so delight in me
And be the God Thou art, Is darkness to my intellect But sunshine to my heart Mr. Selby is a graduate of the University of Northern Iowa, with majors in elementary education and mathematics. He and his wife Arlene were living in the small town of Conrad, Iowa, with their two adopted children when this story took place. Harold was teaching fifth grade and Arlene was teaching remedial reading in the high school. They now live in Elyria, Ohio. There it was again! That strange twitching in my left eye. I was standing on the school playground and turned to one of the other grammar school teachers and asked her if she noticed it. She did not seem concerned, but deep inside I had an empty, scared feeling — like something was wrong, very wrong. There had been other strange symptoms during the preceding months like the temporary paralysis of my throat and extreme coughing spells. The doctor had given me pills to loosen my lungs and told me not to worry. But I still had a weird feeling that something drastic was about to happen. Then on Saturday morning, January 15, 1966, I woke up so dizzy I could not see. My wife Arlene cancelled her Saturday morning piano students and took me to the doctor. He gave me a shot, but as I started out of his office, I collapsed. I did not faint, but I felt a tremendous pressure bearing down on me. My whole muscular system gave way. Conrad is just a tiny little town and the doctor thought I should be hospitalized for tests. So Arlene drove me over to Marshalltown where I entered the hospital. They gave me all the basic tests: spinal tap, EKG, blood tests, the works. I felt better and the next Friday the doctor came in and said I could go home Sunday. That night, I climbed out of bed at eleven o’clock to go to the bathroom and the pressure hit again. It knocked me to the floor and I had to be helped back to bed. When I regained my senses, I was seeing double. Then came Sunday morning, the day I was supposed to go home. My doctor came in and checked my eyes and the next thing I knew, I was in an ambulance on the way to the hospital in Waterloo. I didn’t know it at the time, but the doctor in Marshalltown had told Arlene he thought I had a brain tumor. I spent the next nine days in the hospital in Waterloo where they ran more tests. “I think you’ve had a light stroke, Mr. Selby,” the doctor said. “We’re going to let you go home and we want you to keep in close touch with us.” I felt relieved. I had no idea that while he was telling me this, he was writing on my chart the dreaded words: multiple sclerosis. On February 14, I got my doctors permission to resume my teaching duties on a part-time basis. Things went all right because I rested in the afternoon and the next Monday I decided to try it full-time. Wednesday morning, Arlene begged me to stay home, but I insisted that I was all right and went on to work. I drove the nine miles out to the elementary school, but by 10 A.M. I was so sick the secretary’s husband had to carry me out of my classroom to the car. “You can take me home. I’ll be okay,” I kept saying. But instead he drove me to the doctor’s office. The doctor came running out to the parked car and examined me. Within minutes I was in an ambulance and on my way back to Waterloo. This time I was in Waterloo Hospital only three days. After a quick examination, the doctors made arrangements for me to be admitted to Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota, as an outpatient. By the time I arrived at Mayo, the pain was so severe that I had a numbness on the left side of my body from head to toe. I was seeing double and had little control of my bladder. I staggered when I walked and was shaking badly. When I tried to sit or stand, my head flopped from one side to the other as if there were no muscles in my neck. I was scared — scared to death of what the doctors were going to find. I was in Mayo five days taking the full battery of tests: an electroencephalogram, blood tests, spinal tap (my fourth), and X-rays. On the fourth of March, my wife’s father and mother drove up from Conrad and took me home. The doctors at Mayo said they would send the doctors in Conrad and Waterloo the results of their examinations. I went home and waited. About three weeks later, I went back to my doctor. He told me Mayo’s diagnosis had confirmed the diagnosis at Waterloo. “You mean I’ve had a stroke?” I asked. “I wish it were a stroke, Harold. But it looks like it’s multiple sclerosis.” Multiple sclerosis, I thought. I knew absolutely nothing about the disease except what little I had read in the papers or learned when neighbors had come to the door to solicit for funds for national research. Now I found that my case was classified as incurable. There was no known way to alter or even slow the progression of the disease. I couldn’t believe this could happen just when everything seemed to be going so right. At thirty-three, I had felt I was well on my way to achieving my cherished goals in life. Arlene and I were both teaching. We had adopted two precious children. I was making plans to attend graduate school to complete my Master’s Degree ... and now, this. Even though I was able to force myself to resume teaching, by the end of the school year I had become totally dependent on two canes which I had fashioned from discarded broomsticks. I could not even walk up the steps to my office without stumbling. Even taking care of my own personal needs became a gargantuan task. I was taking eighteen pills a day: codeine, Darvon, pills for my lungs, etc. I felt lost—more lost than I knew it was possible to feel. My life had always been full of action, devoted to meeting the needs of other people. I had taught and coached elementary school baseball and football. I even used to quarterback some of the student teams, but now my days of normal life were over. I could not walk, much less run. Reading was virtually impossible. I could only drive short distances. Watching TV was a thing of the past. Even getting in and out of the bathtub became a major accomplishment. Everything I loved to do had been snatched away in just a matter of months. I found myself asking God, “Why?” We had been active attenders at the Methodist church and my wife even played the organ. When the new minister had come to town, the old minister had said, “You will have at least one listener — Harold Selby.” I had sung in the choir and taught Sunday school. But none of it had prepared me to face the loss of health and the hard, cold reality of death. And certainly there had been no mention of the healing power of the Holy Spirit. All I knew was that my life was over. I was doomed to spend the rest of my days as a semi-vegetable. I tried everything. I consulted the Veteran’s Administration in Des Moines to discuss the possibility of a rehabilitation program. The doctors at the hospital were dubious. They did not think I could qualify for VA help, but promised to look into it. “Go home and let your wife take care of you,” they had said. But what man wants to be dependent on his wife? Besides, Arlene had a full-time teaching job herself. How could she hold down a job and take care of me twenty-four hours a day? And now we were faced with another problem. We had used up all our savings and needed her income just to survive. I was to find that the darkest hours always precede the dawn. And so, in an unsuspected and mysterious way, I was introduced to the power of God. And things began to happen so fast, they are hard even to relate. It began in June. I did not want to let my legs get so stiff that I could not use them, so I was constantly walking. Late one afternoon, I decided to walk four blocks to the convalescent home to see a friend who also had multiple sclerosis. On the way back, I took a different street and passed in front of the Presbyterian pastor’s house. Donald Shaw, the pastor, noticed me struggling down the sidewalk on my two canes. Even though we hardly knew each other, he called out and I stopped to chat for a moment. “I have a book on healing that you might be interested in,” he said as I was about to leave. To be polite, I took the book home and Arlene read it to me. It was I Believe in Miracles. When I saw Donald Shaw a week later, he said, “Do you really believe God can heal people?” I sensed that he was a little unsure of himself, but it started me thinking. I knew some of the Bible stories about miracles in Jesus’ time. But the thought of spiritual healing had never entered my mind—at least until that moment. I thought for a minute and then answered, “Well, yes, I guess He can. He can do anything, can’t He?” Donald rubbed the back of his neck and gazed out across the backyard toward some huge Chinese Elms. “Yes, I know God can do anything. My question is whether He will or not.” The accounts of the miraculous healings in I Believe in Miracles, especially among people who had little faith, had ignited a spark of hope in my discouraged heart. Maybe, just maybe, God would heal me, too, I dared to think. Donald Shaw moved to Kansas City a week later, just as he had said he was going to do. But I determined that I was going to leam as much about the power of God as I could. And it was this quest that led us to attend the Cedar Falls Bible Conference in Waterloo the last of July. I had become accustomed to the spectacle I made when I staggered into a public meeting on my canes. My legs always acted as if they were about to collapse and my head jerked crazily in different directions. But nothing was going to stand in my way to find out about God’s power. As Arlene and I left the meeting the first day, we heard a familiar voice. The figure approached, but because of my blurred vision, I could not recognize him. “Harold, it is Don Shaw. Remember?” Remember? He was the reason we were there. A wave of exhilaration swept over me. Was God really at work? Had He planned this? It was too mysterious for me to comprehend at that moment. Looking back, though, I can see the gentle, guiding hand of the Holy Spirit putting together the pieces of the puzzle—making a beautiful picture to glorify the Heavenly Father. We spent the evening together talking about the power of God to heal the sick and wondering whether the miracle services were still being held in Pittsburgh. “Why not write Kathryn Kuhlman and find out?” Arlene suggested. The solution was so simple, we all marveled that we had not thought of it sooner. The next day, we mailed two letters. One was simply addressed to Kathryn Kuhlman, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. The other was to the Pittsburgh Chamber of Commerce requesting information on the Kuhlman meetings. I had so little hope that the letters would ever reach their destinations, I went ahead with my plans for possible rehabilitation with the VA hospital. Then Kathryn Kuhlman’s letter arrived. Yes, they were still having services in Carnegie Hall. Yes, God was still healing people and she felt that He would heal me. With this new hope, we made plans to attend die miracle service the following week. But we had used up all our money and there would not be any more until after school started and Arlene drew her first check. Pittsburgh was eight hundred miles away and we needed at least forty dollars to make the trip. So the week before we were to leave, I started out to earn expenses. In eighteen hours, I had sold thirteen sets of the World Book Encyclopedia. I do not know whether the people felt sorry for me or whether I was just that good a salesman, but God was at work and we raised the money. On Wednesday, August 10, we headed out! I was able to drive to Des Moines, where I took my final tests at the VA hospital. But after the battery of tests, my reflexes were so poor and my vision so blurred and fuzzy, I realized it was impossible for me to see well enough to drive any farther. Arlene had always been terrified of driving in city traffic. When I told her I could not see, she began to cry. We sat there in the parking lot, completely frustrated. For the first time in my life, I asked God to help me. Oh, I had often prayed general prayers, but never any specific prayers. But this time I did. “Lord, be my eyes, be my strength.” Then, with new assurance, I said to Arlene, “Honey, God is going to guide us. If you will tell me where to turn, when to slow down, and when to speed up, then with the three of us, I know we can make it.” We pulled out into the heavy traffic with Arlene quietly saying, “Move to the left ... slow down a little ... steer to the right ... get ready to stop....” And do you know what? God gave us the strength and ability to drive all the way to Pittsburgh without a single mishap. Arlene drove on the open road and I drove in the cities. That first night, we stopped at a roadside park in Illinois to sleep in the back of the car. Something was already happening in my body. Never had I been so aware of the presence of God. For the first time in months, I was able to stagger around without my canes. I could hardly believe it. I leaned against the fender and cried. Arlene stood with her arms around my waist and cried with me. Something special was happening. We could feel it. The second night, we pulled into Pittsburgh right at the evening rush hour. The lights of the cars were driving me crazy. I was trying to steer and Arlene was telling me where to go. How we kept from being killed or from killing someone else is simply another of God’s miracles. But we managed to drive right to the parking lot at Carnegie Hall. We planned to spend the night in the car again to conserve our dwindling supply of money. But a clerk at a nearby store advised against it. “Not here on the North Side,” he said, “somebody will club you for sure!” He gave us directions to a hotel across the river. But when we crossed the bridge, our system of my steering and Arlene’s navigating got crossed up. We took a wrong turn and never could find the highway again. We wound up spending the night in a cheap truck stop. The next morning, we climbed the stairs of Carnegie Hall at eight o’clock. The services did not start for another three and a half hours, but there were people already waiting. “Surely God will honor you today,” someone said when they found out who we were. They sounded so confident, so trusting, that our hopes soared. The next three hours passed like seconds as we listened to the thrilling experiences of those around us who had been healed. And when the doors opened, I felt a new strength in my body that carried me through the crush of the crowd to waiting seats. There was an almost electric sensation of the Spirit of God moving through the great throng of people. I could feel it and I was too excited even to pray. The music from the organ and piano carried me closer to God than I had ever been. Then suddenly Kathryn Kuhlman appeared on stage. The audience rose to their feet applauding. I finally got positioned and pulled myself up, too. All around me, people were singing. Some were holding their hands in the air. I, too, wanted to raise my hands and join in, but I could not let go of the seat in front of me. “God!” I choked out. I could almost feel Him enveloping me with His love. It was marvelous. Then the healings began. For an hour I sat in awe, listening to the testimonies of instantaneous healings. Then Miss Kuhlman asked the audience to stand and sing again. I staggered to my feet. “Do not see Kathryn Kuhlman,” she said from the stage. “Forget the one standing next to you. Look up and see Jesus, for He is the One who will give you the desire of your heart.” I leaned my canes against the back of the seat in front of me and took Arlene’s hand. I glanced to the other side and noticed a wisened, little Negro woman with hands gnarled from many years of heavy toil. She was reaching out for my other hand. I hesitated only a split second, but my prejudices came bubbling to the surface and instead of extending my hand, I simply stuck out the last two fingers for her grasp. I felt her calloused hand close around them. A great wave of conviction swept over me. “Lord, forgive me! I should have given her my hand.” Then it hit, like a tidal wave—like a great whoosh! It swept through my body from head to foot. It was a sensation much like a charge of electricity passing through my total being. It started on one side of my brain and came surging down through my body. I gasped for breath and my lungs were clear. I opened my eyes and I could see clearly. I felt my legs, back, and neck gaining strength. It was as though my whole body were being pricked by pins and needles. Vaguely, I heard Miss Kuhlman say, “Someone out there has just been healed.” I turned and looked at Arlene, but before she could say anything, I sensed it was me. When I saw one of Miss Kuhlman’s staff members making her way between the seats, I left my two canes leaning against the back of the seat and made my way past four or five people out into the aisle. I started to take her arm for support and then I thought, I do not need to hold on, I am healed. And I was. I walked unassisted down the aisle and up the steps to the platform. “When God heals you, you are healed,” Miss Kuhlman said. “Run back down those stairs and put it to the test!” I turned and bounded back down the steps like a school kid. I did not care what kind of spectacle I was making. When I returned to the stage, Miss Kuhlman asked if there were any present who could verify my story. Arlene came to the platform, her face wet with tears. We stood for a long time, trembling in each others arms. It was a moment I will never forget. The miracles had just begun. It took a miracle to get us to Pittsburgh, but our money was almost gone and it was going to take another to get us home. As we were leaving the auditorium, a complete stranger, Mrs. J. Ross Philips, came up and asked where we were spending the night. Arlene and I looked at each other and then confessed that we were sleeping in the back of our car. She insisted we follow her back to Poland, Ohio, and spend the weekend with her family. We were hesitant about taking advantage of her generosity, so we spent Friday night in the back of our car. But the next afternoon we gave in and pulled up in front of the beautiful Philips residence in time for dinner and a sound night’s sleep. The next morning, we attended Miss Kuhlman’s worship services in Stambaugh Auditorium in Youngstown. When the time came for the offering, I glanced quickly into my billfold. All I had was a ten-dollar bill. It was every cent that we had left. I whispered to Arlene, “I am going to put it in.” “Don’t you dare,” she shot back. “We’ve got to get back to Iowa.” “As much as the Lord has done for me, I just have to put it in. We will fast on the way back,” I said. Arlene glared at me. She could not understand my sudden burst of generosity. When Miss Kuhlman asked us to hold the money in our hands and pray before the offering was received, something happened to Arlene, too. After the prayer, she reached over and squeezed my arm. “Go ahead, honey, we will make it some way.” That afternoon Mrs. Philips fixed us a huge picnic supper and her husband loaned us his big thermos. We left about 5 P.M. “Why not take the turnpike?” they asked as we climbed into our car. “It will be much quicker.” But turnpikes cost money in toll fares, and I did not have the heart to tell our new friends that we did not have a single penny in our pockets. “No, we will go routes 224 and 24,” I replied. “That way we can view the countryside.” As we drove into the twilight, Arlene gave a short gasp. “What’s wrong, honey?” I asked. “You forgot about the bridge across the Mississippi,” she said. “There’s a fifteen-cent toll.” “I guess we will have to stop and see your brother on the way back then,” I said. “But I am not going to borrow more than fifteen cents. We spent the night in the car outside Kentland, Indiana, and at 8 A.M. we pulled into a service station. “The car needs gas and I need a shave,” I said. I had a credit card and wasn’t worried about payment for the gas. I felt refreshed after shaving and was ready to face the problems of the day with new vigor. Then a new barrier arose. “Sorry, Mister,” the station attendant said as I handed him my credit card. “I can’t accept this.” “What do you mean?” I stammered. “It says right here that your station honors these cards.” “Nope!” he replied, his Midwestern stubbornness much in evidence. “I’ve been stuck too many times.” “Well, you will take my check then, won’t you? The gas was only $3.87.” “Nope! Won’t take that, either.” I borrowed his phone and looked up the number of a local minister. I told him who I was and asked him if he’d cash my check for $3.87. He asked me where I was going and where I had been. I told him and added that I had been healed of multiple sclerosis. “You’ve been what?” he asked, his tone of voice changing slightly. “I’ve been healed,” I bubbled over. “God healed me in a miracle service.” And the line suddenly went dead. I turned to Arlene with a puzzled look and said, “He hung up.” This was my first indication that everyone was not going to be as enthused over my healing as I was. Arlene began to laugh. “Let’s see how the Lord is going to get you out of this one,” she giggled. We tried the bank and another service station. Neither would help us. Finally, someone suggested that we call the local undertaker. He agreed to vouch for my check and lend us the fare for the toll bridge and we were on our way. I recalled Jesus’ words to the leper He had healed. “See thou tell no man...” (Matthew 8:4). I think I was beginning to understand why. But I also knew that nothing could keep me from testifying. The first test came two weeks later when I resumed my teaching position. I had also been assigned the principal’s job in addition to my teaching duties and I was determined that nothing would stand in the way of my witnessing. The children could hardly believe I was the same teacher they had seen struggling to school on two canes. When they asked me what happened, I told them about the miracle of my healing and of my commitment to Jesus Christ. The real test came in March of the following year. My school superintendent came to me with a new contract. “We are pleased with your work, Harold,” he said. “And we are prepared to give you an eight hundred dollar raise for the coming year.” He paused, “But there is one stipulation. We would like you to promise us that you will stop talking to the school children about Jesus Christ.” “If I cannot talk about my Lord, you might as well keep the contract,” was my reply. I went home that afternoon and told Arlene I had refused the contract for the next year. That night, we prayed, asking God for guidance and wisdom. The next day, I filed an application for a federal grant to return to graduate school for a degree in counseling and guidance. We prayed for two weeks, asking God’s leadership, and even daring to pray that He would lead us into the Pittsburgh-Youngstown area so we could participate in the ministry. On April 17, a big, brown envelope was in my post office box. The letter had to do with my grant and began, “We are happy to inform you....” Not only was I going to be able to get my Master’s Degree at Ohio University in Athens, only 250 miles from Youngstown, but the total amount of the grant and side benefits added up to far more than the school board in Conrad had offered. You see, nothing is impossible with God! We are so prone to assess miracles by degrees. With God, there are no degrees where His power is concerned. The healing of multiple sclerosis is no more difficult for Him than providing for the toll bridge. Is this complex? No, it is simple. So simple that most folks miss it. I missed it for thirty-three years! Things Are Different Now: Chapter 7 |