My head was splitting. An occupational hazard of teaching is smelling fumes of dry-erase markers. The class was nearly finished anyway, so I cut my lecture short allowing them to leave. The headache heralded a migraine; difficult to look at the book, torture to think and speak. They filed out. One student stayed behind. He stood nearer the door to where I stood near the board packing things up. I hoped that whatever he needed would be simple, a ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ and better yet could be answered on the way to the car park. Stuffing papers and books into my bag I noticed two things, both of which alarm me and cast overboard the hope of a simple exchange. First, this guy is young; or, at least, he looks very young. Seemingly no more than seventeen but surely at least nineteen (it is a 200-level course, after all). That thought had not fully formed when the second hit me: he’s shaking. He walked over to the table strewn with my stuff with what I describe in hindsight a hesitant swiftness: moving with a speed that could fail at any moment. He comes to a stop, a stuttered termination of motion that matches his voice. He has a question but doesn’t know how to ask it. Say it, I suggest with what I hope is an assuring smile (who can say, when one has a headache? i could also have inadvertently sneered). Spit it out, don’t worry.
He asks about my headache. I point to the markers -- occupational hazard, I explain. The chemicals are unkind. He shakes, standing to my left. I have something to ask and I hope you won’t be offended. Okay. Let’s hear it.
I heard the voice of God.
Okay.
When you said that your head felt like it was “splitting open” (in the interest of editorial disclosure, I am terribly clever with imagery) I heard God’s voice tell me to pray for you. For the pain. Some people might be offended, and I’m not trying to offend you at all but it’s something I really need to ask. If I can pray for you.
Oh. Well, okay. I shift weight from foot to foot. But you don’t need my permission to pray.
He doesn’t look at all relieved. He continues to tremble and stare at the desk. Well, he said, I need to...
His hand is over my head, just touching my hair. I look at him. His eyes are still downcast. Several moments pass like this. Triangular. Finally he speaks: Lord, I pray that you will take Professor Martin’s headache....
90 minutes later, I had eaten dinner and walked the dog. Laying down for bed, I wondered whether to report this incident to the dean. Switching off the light, the regret of not taking two ibuprofen knocked against my temples.
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