The Story of Jeannie in the Summerland

Let me tell you about Jeannie.

Jeannie lived to be nearly twelve years old on earth.

She was a pretty, fairy-like child, daintily made.

Her whole ambition was to become a dancer, and she began to train when she was very young, showing a fair talent.

Unfortunately, at the age of eight, Jeannie contracted polio, a very severe case, and was for some months kept in an iron lung.

She recovered, but one leg was shrunken―it continued to shrink―the muscles appearing to be withering away.

Poor Jeannie was in and out of hospitals for months.

She underwent several operations―she wore a brace on her leg, but the muscles continued to shrink until one leg was noticeably shorter than the other.

She was often in much pain, but the greatest sadness to her was in the loss of her dancing life.

Jeannie could not bear to think that she would never dance again―never be in the Corps de Ballet―never have the happiness of performing what she loved to do.

In the hope of having the leg restored to a normal state, she stoically underwent several tortures of stretching tackles, iron clamps, and further operations.

In the end, and at the age of eleven years, she knew that she would never be like other girls―she would never hop, jump―or run again.

The agony to her mind and emotions of this realisation, and the constant bouts of illness weakened her constitution.

At twelve years old, after a chill, she died of pneumonia.

When Jeannie ‘woke up’ in a Rest Home in the Summerland, Mother Florence and Sister Frances were at her bedside.

Jeannie looked about her, trying to focus her sight on these new surroundings.

At last, she saw Mother Floreance and Sister Frances.

Jeannie stared hard, then her little face crumpled, and she burst into tears.

“It's the Sister. I'm back in the hospital again” she wept.

“Please, please don't make me have any more operations.”

Mother Florence patted her hand.

“You are only in our Home for a rest,” she said.

“You're going to be quite well again, Jeannie—quite, quite,” she emphasised the word ‘well.’

Jeannie looked at Mother Florence.

“Are you the matron?” she asked.

Mother nodded.

“If you like to call me that."

"But this is not a hospital, only a rest home, and you are getting well very quickly.”

Jeannie turned her head away.

“No,” she said, “I'll never be well. I've got a shrunken leg.”

“Not now, Jeannie,” Sister Frances, “Not anymore. Your leg is well―quite well and strong.”

Jeannie shook her head.

“Look at it yourself” Mother urged.

“It's just as long as the other one. Take a look and see.”

“But I know it isn't” Jeannie could not be persuaded.

“I know you're only saying that. Where's my Mummy?”

“You can go and see her presently” Mother suggested, “when you've learned to run again.”

“Run?” Jeannie's attention was caught.

“Yes, run.” Sister Frances bent over her.

“We're going to teach you to run and play and dance here, Jeannie.”

Her eyes brightened.

“Dance?”

“Yes, dance.” Sister Frances took hold of her legs, gently raising them.

“Look, Jeannie, they're both the same length, see?”

Jeannie stared. She looked from Mother Florence to Sister Frances.

Slowly, she sat up.

She ran her hands up and down her calves, over the ankles, fingering the bones of the feet carefully, and then back to the knees.

She did this over and over as if she could not believe that she could feel and see.

She was silent―puzzled.

It evidently never occurred to her to try to stand up.

The habit was still too strong.

She just sat there, holding her legs and gazing down at her feet.

Presently, she looked up at them.

“Is it a miracle?” she asked in an awed voice.

“You could call it a miracle,” Mother answered, and the smile that illumined her face was truly beautiful.

Jeannie was silent, considering this.

“Are you the Virgin Mary?” she asked at last.

“No, I'm not the Virgin Mary, dear.”

“You look like her," and Sister Frances, too, thought how lovely was the face beneath the plain veil, "and she does miracles.”

Mother smiled. “Supposing you get up and stand,” she suggested.

“Without my crutches?”

“Yes. Try.”

“Will it hurt?”

“No. You won't have any pain. You'll never have that old pain again, Jeannie.”

“You promise? I really won't?”

Suddenly, Jeannie caught Sister Frances' hand, and clung to it.

“I promise,” Mother and Sister Frances both said. She nodded. It was plain that she was not sure that she could trust them.

“Won't you try to stand?” asked Mother again.

She did not make an answer, but she allowed Sister Frances to lift her legs and set them down.

They held her little body, and slowly, they raised Jeannie to her feet.

She staggered, and swayed, terrified to put any faith in the once-crippled leg. 

After waiting, she put down her foot, but still clutched at Mother and Sister Frances.

Slowly, Jeannie's expression changed. Surprise, incredulity, belief, and joy spread over her face. 

She let go of them. 

Jeannie stood erect, balancing on both feet. 

She even moved forward a few paces.

“It's true. It's true. It is a miracle!”

Suddenly, overcome with this great and joyful awakening, she sank back onto the bed and sobbed for pure happiness.

“I'll walk again,” she cried. “I'm well. I'm like other girls!” 

Jeannie's eyes clouded―she looked piteously at Sister Frances. "Unless I'm dreaming.”

“You are well, Jeannie," Sister Frances insisted, "and it isn't a dream. It's true.”

Jeannie smiled. It was obvious that this had all been a great strain for her. 

She was becoming weary. 

She would need rest. 

“Then if this is true, we must say a prayer, thanks, a Hail Mary.”

Mother Florence bent over the child.

“Would you like us all to thank God with you?” she asked gently. 

Jeannie nodded. 

She closed her eyes. 

Together, they spoke softly the Prayer of Thanksgiving. 

As they prayed, Jeannie slipped back into the passive state of the newly awakened into this land of eternal summer. 

So they let her rest.