He grabbed her hand. His grip was strong, almost too strong. He pulled her to her feet. For one horrifying second, Delia’s knees buckled, and Martha thought she would fall. But Copeland held her, his arm like an iron bar around her waist. The worship band struck a single, swelling chord.
Delia was standing. Her face was a mask of agony and ecstasy. Her legs shook. The knot in her spine screamed. But she was vertical. kenneth copeland healing
“You,” he said. “The woman in the chair. You’ve been sitting in that lie for eleven years. The Lord says tonight, the anointing breaks the yoke.” He grabbed her hand
Martha held her mother as the ushers gently guided them away from the stage, toward a side room marked “Miracles Testimonies.” Delia was crying, laughing, whispering, “He did it. He did it, Martha.” For one horrifying second, Delia’s knees buckled, and
Copeland released her into Martha’s arms. He raised both hands to the sky, his face lifted toward the lights, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Glory!” he shouted. “Glory to the Lamb!”
He descended the steps, flanked by two burly men in headsets. He walked right up to her, and Martha had to step back. He smelled of expensive cologne and coffee. He leaned down, his face inches from her mother’s, and for a moment, Martha saw something in his eyes—not malice, but a fierce, unblinking certainty. He believed. That was the terrifying part. He absolutely, completely believed.
The cameras swung. A giant screen showed Delia’s face—her wrinkled cheeks, her startled, hopeful eyes. The crowd gasped, because that’s what crowds do.