At one point during my illness, my smallpox was getting worse day by day. Not only the doctor but also the family priest felt that I would not survive.
One night the priest dreamt that I had died. He ran to our house immediately, in the dead of night, and knocked at our door. My mother, quite alarmed, opened the door. The priest rushed toward me while I was fast asleep inside the mosquito net. My suffering had been most pitiful until then, but I awoke suddenly, screaming a healthy cry. Upon hearing me, the priest started striking his chest with his fists, in joy or dismay or both, and tearing his hair out at the roots. “O God,” he cried, “You have deceived me. But my heart is overwhelmed with joy and gratitude at Your deception.”
My mother wanted to know why the priest had come at this late hour, so the priest, still trembling, told her all about the dream he had had. My mother replied, “Venerable sir, my prayer is infinitely stronger than a child’s smallpox.”