The Crooked Places Made Straight

When your life or body feels bent out of shape—by illness, accident, or even someone else’s mistake—how do you keep going? In The Crooked Places Made Straight, Raphael G. Warnock argues that enduring faith can meet life’s most disorienting suffering with patient hope and courageous action. Yet the text you’re reading is, in fact, George Palmer Pardington’s 1886 testimony “The Crooked Made Straight,” a first-person account of crippling injury, failed treatments, and a long, gradual healing he attributes to the “prayer of faith” (Note: Though the metadata lists Warnock as author, the content is Pardington’s 19th-century narrative). Pardington contends that God’s healing often comes after surrender, in community, and through the humble work of acting on what you believe—step by step.

Across nearly a decade, Pardington goes from a healthy ten-year-old to a severely deformed adolescent after a teacher’s violent discipline in 1876 triggers uncontrolled movements, muscular contractions, and a spine so contorted that he forms an arch when lying on his back—only his head and heels touch the floor. Doctors brace him in Taylor neck supports, steel corsets, and even double-thick plaster-of-Paris jackets reinforced with wood. A Detroit medical society examines him. The State Homeopathic Medical College in Ann Arbor pronounces there is “no help.” He tries mineral baths in Mount Clemens and Grand Haven. Electricity is administered daily. Nothing works. His right arm contracts so tightly the palm rests between his shoulder blades for three and a half years. His head later loses support, falling back between his shoulders. He is mostly on the floor, breathing shallowly, barely able to walk a few steps without collapsing to breathe again. And yet—he reads, jokes, hosts friends, prays, and refuses despair.

Core Claim: Surrendered, Stubborn, and Specific Faith

Pardington’s core argument unfolds in three movements. First, surrender: his mother, secretly praying, releases her will to God—“whatever the issue is to be, she would be satisfied.” Not long after, George casually lowers his arm to his lap. The three-and-a-half-year spasm ends in a single, unremarkable motion. Second, solidarity: friends, pastors, and a wider network in Buffalo form a circle of intercession, aligning at exact hours (July 21 and 28, 1881) to pray. Third, action: on Thanksgiving Day, 1881, George removes his plaster jacket “forever,” declaring by faith he is “every whit whole” on the basis of Christ’s finished work—even while still weak, ungainly, and obviously crooked. He then acts his way into healing: walking as far as he can, traveling to Buffalo to be anointed, resuming studies, and re-entering school and life.

What You’ll Learn

You’ll see the detailed arc of his illness, the limits of late-19th-century medicine, and the interior work of faith under pressure. You’ll learn how George discerns between instant and gradual healing, how he resists fruitless arguments, and why he anchors hope in Scripture (“James 5:14–15,” “Ex. 15:26,” and “Isa. 40:31”). You’ll also meet the network that sustains him—parents, pastors, fellow believers like Carrie F. Judd (later Carrie Judd Montgomery), and even a protective little dog who refuses to let strangers disturb him. Along the way, you’ll see how George’s story rhymes with modern insights (e.g., William James’s “act as if” principle; Herbert Benson’s relaxation response; the power of social support documented in health psychology) while remaining distinctly theological in its logic of surrender, anointing, confession, and communal prayer.

Why It Matters

If you’re carrying chronic pain, a long rehab, or a devastating diagnosis, this account offers a pattern of hope that doesn’t deny hardship. It shows what to do when medicine runs out of explanations: lament, listen, surrender, gather companions, and take small but stubborn steps that align with what you believe. If you’re a caregiver, it shows how faithful presence, practical support, and prayerful community anchor a sufferer. And if you wrestle with faith-and-medicine questions, it suggests a humble path: respect the best available care, yet remain open to the God who can heal instantly, gradually, or ultimately.

A Thread Running Through

“They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength… I am the Lord that healeth thee… O that men would praise the Lord for His goodness.” The testimony frames healing not as triumphalism but as worship-filled perseverance.

In short, George Pardington’s story is about how God straightens what is crooked by shaping a person through patience, community, and embodied faith. It’s a guide for anyone learning to move again—physically, emotionally, or spiritually—one faithful breath at a time.

Pardington’s ordeal begins in a single, shocking moment: a teacher grips his collar and yanks his arm backward after he laughs at a classmate’s drawing. He’s ten, at Webster Public School in Detroit. He hears a snap. Panic surges. Delirium follows: a pulse at 140, fever, nausea. Doctors first suspect scarlet fever. But as the fever subsides, something stranger appears: two middle fingers twitch involuntarily, then the whole hand, then the arm. The movements are not his to command. He knocks over inkstands without noticing. The muscles contract until the right hand is lodged between his shoulder blades—day and night—for three and a half years.

From Jerks to Geometry of Pain

The involuntary movement spreads. The neck tightens. The head drops toward the chest. To counteract this, doctors fit a Taylor brace: a steel collar cradling his chin. It hurts, and it doesn’t help. The spine begins to curve laterally, then forward, pushing chest and abdomen outward. He can lie only on the floor, flat on his stomach, elbows propping his chest and head. Eventually, when supine, his body forms an arch—head and heels touching the floor, nothing in between. His breath becomes a metronome for mobility: he can walk as long as he holds his breath; to inhale, he must drop and be lifted again. It’s bizarre, frightening, and medically baffling.

A City Watches, A Boy Endures

Detroit’s medical society examines him and declares the sensory nerves normal but the motor nerves “thoroughly disorganized.” No precedent, no protocol. Physicians try electricity “an hour or more every morning.” They prescribe braces, steel corsets, then plaster-of-Paris jackets so thick they must be reinforced with strips of holly or whitewood. The cases often crack as soon as he stands; the paraspinal muscles pull with such force that the hardened plaster fails. He tries mineral baths at Mt. Clemens and Grand Haven. Nothing changes the core problem.

A family friend, Dr. John M. Arnold, editor of the Michigan Christian Advocate, publishes “A Peculiar Boy,” describing the daily theater of survival. George reads on the floor. He raises himself in spasmodic bursts, grasps a coal stove rim, and pulls with all his might. He eats off a tray while prone. He’s dragged by the feet between rooms, tugging his cushion, while a small brown dog guards him from well-meaning hands. Yet he jokes, asks questions, and pursues books: Garfield’s life, Bryant’s U.S. history—anything he can get. He was converted to Christian faith at seven and leans hard on it now.

Naming What We See

Witnesses call it chorea, St. Vitus’ dance—19th-century terms for involuntary movement disorders (today, clinicians might also see features of dystonia or post-traumatic movement disorder). The later “water on the brain” impression (likely hydrocephalus or intracranial pressure signs) suggests how systemic and frightening the condition becomes. The narrative never devolves into self-pity. Instead, it stays observational: temperatures, braces, travel, faculty verdicts. You feel the long wait of a child aging into adolescence on the floor, making sense of a body that won’t obey and a world that can’t explain.

A Hard Gift

“From the very first I was resigned to my lot… I received the assurance that my sickness was to be for the glory of God.” Not triumphalism, but a steady reframe: meaning does not end where medicine struggles.

If you’ve faced a life that won’t cooperate—pain flares, strange symptoms, ambiguous scans—this chapter of George’s life validates your reality. He models how to keep a mind alive when the body resists: keep learning, keep laughing, keep close to the people and pets who sit in the dirt with you. (Compare Viktor Frankl’s emphasis on meaning in suffering in Man’s Search for Meaning: George locates meaning not only psychologically but theologically, which then sustains his day-to-day.)

Pardington’s family does not rush to miracle language. They try everything available in their era. Specialists in Detroit. Electricity administered daily. Taylor brace for cervical support. Steel corsets to hold the trunk. Mineral baths at Mt. Clemens and Grand Haven. Finally, elaborate plaster-of-Paris jackets, applied by a team in sessions that absorb entire afternoons. He’s placed on a stretcher while assistants sit on his body to counter the muscular pull until the plaster hardens. Even then, as soon as he stands, the case may crack where the paraspinals force their will. Their creativity is heroic; the results, stubbornly unchanged.

The Ann Arbor Verdict

In summer 1880, the family takes George to the State Homeopathic Medical College in Ann Arbor for a full faculty review. It’s the pinnacle of available expertise. The faculty’s judgment is stark: “no help.” In the social logic of the time, academic medicine carries finality. Friends read the verdict as destiny. Yet George’s attending physician hangs on because of the boy’s “firm” general health. They try bedrest for a month. Ointments, liniments, and hours of massage by his mother morning and night. The right arm, locked overhead for years, does not yield. The spine, he confesses, is “twisted every way.”

Late-19th-Century Care, Early-21st-Century Echoes

Reading this today, you might notice how humane yet limited 19th-century interventions were. Bracing reflects an orthopedic paradigm: if structure is crooked, hold it straight from the outside. Electricity mirrors a neuromodulation impulse: if nerves misfire, stimulate. Mineral baths reflect a regenerative hope in nature. Each is reasonable. None touch the disease’s seat. This is the honest boundary condition of medical care: even at its best, there are conditions it can’t yet name or normalize. (Compare Atul Gawande’s reflections on the limits of fix-it medicine in Being Mortal—humility becomes a clinical skill.)

Caregiver Courage

In the margins of failed protocols lives a love story. A mother rubs her son’s rigid muscles for hours every day. A father navigates pastoral appointments to stay near care, even when moves risk losing access to specialists. Friends drag him gently across rooms when walking is impossible. Setbacks don’t mean abandonment. If you’re a caregiver, you recognize this mix: relentless improvisation plus the quiet heroism of small routines—massaging, bracing, repositioning, reading aloud. Medicine at its edge becomes family medicine, whether we want it to or not.

Honest Appraisal

“Every feature of my case baffled medical science.” The sentence is not contempt; it’s clarity. Clarity then makes space for other kinds of help to enter.

When you hit the ceiling of what medicine can do, you’re not done; you’re at a crossroads. One path is bitterness. The other is curiosity: What else might help—spiritually, communally, behaviorally—without rejecting the good medicine can still provide? George and his parents persist with doctors as long as they can. Only after repeated, sober attempts does the story pivot to a different kind of help. The turn to faith is not anti-science; it’s post-exhaustion, post-evidence humility—an opening, not an argument.

Before George makes any declarations of healing, his mother makes a quiet decision: she will stop demanding a specific outcome and entrust the outcome to God. Privately, unknown to all, she prays, “whatever the issue is to be, she would be satisfied.” This is not resignation; it’s release. In Christian spirituality, this is the movement from clinging to consenting—“not my will, but yours be done.”

The Arm Comes Down

Soon after, while chatting with a friend, George casually lowers his right hand from behind his shoulders into his lap. No heat, no noise, no spectacle—just a natural motion his body has refused for years. The moment is so ordinary it almost disappears. Yet it’s seismic: a three-and-a-half-year muscular prison opens without force. When he shows his parents, his mother leaves the room, overcome. Only then does she reveal her prayer of surrender.

Letting Go as a Kind of Strength

This scene invites a hard question: what if one of the strongest things you can do is stop trying to force what you want and place the whole matter in wiser hands? In therapy terms, Acceptance and Commitment Therapy (ACT) would call this “acceptance” and “values-driven action”—stop fighting every sensation; commit to living by what matters. In contemplative terms (Teresa of Ávila, The Interior Castle), it’s holy indifference—freedom from grasping at outcomes so you can receive what is given.

Miracle or Mind-Body Unknotting?

Skeptics might say the release reflects psychosomatic untangling after years of tension. Believers might call it a quiet miracle. George does not over-interpret; he simply testifies. What matters most is the pattern you can apply: relinquish the timeline and method, stay open, and watch for undramatic mercies hiding in ordinary motions. Sometimes the “crooked made straight” begins not with fireworks but with a single muscle remembering how to relax.

The Order of Operations

Surrender first, surprise second. The testimony suggests God often moves when the will unclenches. Even if you prefer secular language, the sequence—release, then relief—rings true.

If you’re stuck in a long struggle, consider experimenting with this kind of surrender. Name the desire clearly. Offer it without bargaining. Ask for help to receive whatever comes with courage. Then stay alert to small changes you might otherwise dismiss—an arm lowered, a night of deeper sleep, a breath that feels wider. The first grace may be subtle, but it signals that you’re not abandoned—and that more change may be possible.

The decisive turn in 1881 arrives through print. In Detroit, George meets Mrs. Eliza Porter, who places in his hands Carrie F. Judd’s booklet The Prayer of Faith. He reads the first chapter and senses, as he puts it, that “the dear Lord Himself had sent the little book to me.” He walks to his room, kneels, thanks God for revealing Himself as Healer, and—without consulting anyone—decides to stop all medicine. The next day, July 3, 1881, he takes his final dose, honoring his mother’s request for one last compliance. From then on, he entrusts his case wholly to God.

Risk and Response

Friends call it risky. They’re right to worry. George does not belittle medicine; he simply judges, after years of relentless effort, that leaning entirely on God is the next faithful move. He writes to Carrie Judd, who promises united prayer at 8 p.m. on July 21 and 28. At both hours he’s “greatly blessed,” but no dramatic cure arrives. Disappointment hits hard. “Satan came in like a flood,” he says; then, “the Spirit of the Lord lifted up a standard against him.” In that struggle, he learns two lessons he’ll repeat often.

Two Lessons That Shift the Story

First, look to God—not to a specific act of God. In other words, anchor your attention in the Giver, not a particular gift on a particular timetable. Second, accept that healing may be gradual. Just as the disease crept in, the recovery might unfold by degrees. With that reframing, change begins: signs of fluid on the brain disappear; his neck muscles relax; he can move his head without his hands. His general health improves; he can walk a city block with rests. And yet, the core deformity remains: the spine is still stubborn, the paraspinals still taut.

Ethics of Faith and Care

How should you think about stopping treatment? George’s case is not a universal prescription. Where medicine offers effective, proportionate help, the wise course often includes it. But when years of interventions fail and harm accumulates, pivoting to a faith-centered plan with community oversight can be ethically sound—especially if you remain attentive to danger signs and willing to re-engage medical help if needed. (Compare Catherine Marshall’s decisions during her long illness, or John Wimber’s teaching on “already/not yet” healing—faithful, non-presumptive expectancy.)

Attention Re-anchored

“God renewed the assurance that I should be healed, but He taught me to look to Him, and not to what He would do.” A subtle but liberating reorientation.

If you’re discerning next steps in a protracted illness, this chapter offers a template: seek trustworthy counsel, pray for unity, define clear checkpoints, and prepare your community to pray with specificity and patience. Expect God to work—but hold how God works with open hands.

On Thanksgiving Day, 1881, George faces the core question: can he trust God not only to improve symptoms but to straighten a spine “twisted every way”? Friends and former doctors watch to see if his faith extends to the visible deformity. He chooses to act. He removes his plaster-of-Paris jacket “forever” and walks forth “in Jesus’ name, leaning on the mighty arm of God.” The feeling is not triumphant. He’s wobbly, barely balanced, tempted to put the case back on. But he holds the ground he’s taken.

Belief, Behavior, and the Body

From this day forward, he does something psychologically profound: he behaves in line with the identity he believes—“every whit whole”—even as the evidence lags. He doesn’t fake strength; he builds it by consistent, safe challenges. He returns to Buffalo in 1882, is anointed for healing, then keeps practicing life: more walking, more study, more social engagement. Over months, his improvement becomes “marked” and “permanent.” By spring 1883, he relocates to Hartford, Connecticut, resumes schooling with a private tutor, and later passes into public high school. In 1885–86, he moves to Brooklyn; by then, he declares himself “perfectly healed”—spine straight, strength restored.

Refusing to Argue, Choosing to Confess

Critics press him to justify his claim. He tries arguing, then notices that debate drains his joy and clouds his mind. He stops defending and starts confessing—stating simply what he believes and pointing to Scripture. This is a practical discipline: attend to what strengthens faith; drop what siphons it. (William James observed something similar: “Act as if what you do makes a difference. It does.” George would add: act as if what God has promised is reliable. It is.)

Expectation Without Presumption

Note how he balances expectation with humility. He doesn’t deny weakness. He doesn’t stage theatrics. He takes measured risks (walking further, traveling, studying), watches his body’s feedback, and keeps calibrating effort and rest. From a modern perspective, this echoes exposure and graded activity approaches used in rehab and pain management—action shapes capacity. From George’s perspective, it’s obedience to a promise he has received.

Confession at the Center

“I boldly claimed that I was ‘every whit whole’ on the finished work of Christ.” The confession isn’t magic words; it’s the posture that fuels consistent, congruent action.

If you’re rebuilding after illness, consider this sequence: clarify your identity and hope, choose small congruent actions, measure progress, and refuse to spend energy on arguments that dim your courage. Let time and testimony make your case.

No one heals in isolation. George’s story is woven with companions. Pastors host him, pray with him, and write about him—like Rev. John M. Arnold, who publishes “A Peculiar Boy,” calling readers to kindness toward “those who are deformed.” Friends in Detroit take him on short carriage rides when he can travel. In Tecumseh, a girl his age sits long hours by his side. A tiny brown dog becomes a vigilant ally, growling at intrusive hands and tolerating only those who help. In Buffalo, Carrie F. Judd organizes specific prayer times, then later testifies that the once “pale, slender, deformed boy” walked ten miles round-trip to church with her.

Spiritual Practices, Social Medicine

Community prayer is not only a spiritual act; it’s social medicine. It structures time (Thursday 8 p.m.), focuses attention, and reduces isolation. Letters connect distant allies. Anointing embodies care. These rituals distribute courage across many hearts so one person does not have to carry it alone. Modern research agrees: social support improves outcomes in chronic illness, recovery, and mental health. Whether you call it prayer or presence, being held in a web of concern changes bodies and brains.

Witness and Accountability

Because others are watching, George’s decisions carry communal weight. When he stops medicine, people observe. When he removes the brace, they test his resolve. When he refuses to argue, the community learns a different way to talk about healing—less debate, more testimony; less pressure, more prayer. Community becomes both a mirror and a guide, helping him stay the course without drifting into denial or despair.

What You Can Build

If you’re facing a long recovery, you need a circle. Name five people who will rotate responsibilities: one to organize practical care, one to coordinate updates, one to pray or hold quiet space, one to accompany you to appointments, and one to keep joy alive with stories and walks. Add a clinician who respects your faith commitments. Align on rhythms (weekly check-ins, shared meals, specific prayer times). Make it durable. When courage is low, borrow someone else’s.

From Pity to Partnership

George’s friends don’t just sympathize; they organize. That’s the shift every sufferer needs—from bystanders’ sadness to companions’ shared labor.

Healing, in this story, is as communal as it is personal. When others walk with you, distances shrink. When they pray with you, courage multiplies. That’s not sentiment; it’s strategy.

Underneath George’s decisions lies a specific theological frame. He reads James 5:14–15 and seeks anointing “that I might fulfill the command.” He quotes Exodus 15:26—“I am the Lord that healeth thee”—and Isaiah 40:31—“They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength.” During his Thanksgiving crisis, he says great light came: Christ’s atonement covers sickness as well as sin. On that basis, he confesses he is “every whit whole,” not as denial but as a claim on Christ’s finished work.

Instant vs. Gradual, Gift vs. Giver

George learns to prefer the Giver over any one gift—and to accept gradualism when instant change doesn’t come. Theologically, this is sanctified patience: hope refuses to die even when timelines slip. Practically, it clears him to keep acting wisely while he waits. He seeks anointing in Buffalo in 1882, then keeps training his body to function. Faith is not passivity; it directs practice.

Comparative Voices

Andrew Murray’s Divine Healing (published in the same era) teaches similar themes: Christ’s work includes bodily health; prayer, confession, and obedience position us to receive. Later, John Wimber would frame healing in the “already/not yet” Kingdom—expect many healings now, while accepting that not all are healed yet. George’s testimony fits: much was already given (head control restored, stamina increased); more was not yet (a still-crooked spine) until, over time, it straightened.

Guardrails Against Presumption

Faith language can be misused to shame sufferers or forbid medicine. George avoids this. He tried medicine tirelessly. He doesn’t scold those who hesitate. He refuses arguments that inflate the ego. His confessions are directed Godward, not weaponized people-ward. The fruit is humility, not hype. That’s a healthy theological filter: if your healing doctrine breeds pride or pressure, check your doctrine.

Worship as Outcome

“O that men would praise the Lord for His goodness.” The endpoint of the story is not the spine; it’s doxology. Healing that ends in worship tends to be safer for the soul.

If you’re sorting your own theology of healing, hold these tensions: boldly ask, humbly wait; receive medicine gratefully, release outcomes faithfully; confess hope clearly, never coerce others. Let worship, not winning, be the measure of whether your belief is making you whole.

At the root of George’s suffering is a teacher’s violent response to a child’s laughter. There’s no apology documented, no restitution, no lawsuit in an era with few protections. Trauma arrives in seconds; consequences unfold for years. How does a person live with such injustice? George doesn’t minimize harm. He names the snap, the delirium, the long nights. But he chooses a posture that protects his spirit: gratitude, humor, study, prayer, and service. He refuses to let the injury set his emotional tone.

Public Witness Without Bitterness

Rev. Arnold’s “A Peculiar Boy” urges children not to slight the deformed but to practice kindness and gratitude. George allows his story to educate and soften public life. He becomes a living lesson: suffering is not a spectacle; it’s an invitation to mercy. By spotlighting his resilience, the article turns pity into partnership, urging readers to thank God for their limbs and to care for those who cannot use theirs as easily.

Justice, Safety, and Forgiveness Today

If this incident happened now, we would advocate for trauma-informed school policies, accountability for physical harm, and support for the injured child. Practicing mercy does not preclude pursuing justice. George’s example shows another layer: even when systems fail, you can cultivate an inner life that refuses corrosion. Forgiveness, in this sense, is not forgetting; it’s releasing the right to retaliate so your heart is free to heal.

A Cheerful Defiance

Throughout, friends remark on George’s cheerfulness. He collects jokes, tells stories, and delights in learning. This is not denial; it’s defiance. He refuses to let a teacher’s wrath write his narrative. If your life has been bent by someone else’s actions, consider this strategy: write a counter-story of curiosity, generosity, and praise. The body may need time to follow, but the soul can begin today.

Mercy as Strength

Choosing mercy is not weakness; it’s the strongest way to keep harm from reproducing itself in you.

In a culture that rewards outrage, George’s quiet mercy is a counter-cultural skill. It’s how crooked places in the heart start to straighten long before bones do.

What do you do with a 19th-century healing testimony in a 21st-century life? You translate its wisdom into a practical framework you can live by—one that honors medicine, cultivates faith, and builds resilience.

A Step-by-Step Framework

• Lament honestly. Name the pain, the unfairness, the losses. God meets truth, not pretense.
• Surrender outcomes. Pray as George’s mother did—offer the whole matter to God without bargaining. Release your grip.
• Discern next faithful actions. Seek counsel. If medicine can still help, use it. If it’s exhausted or harmful, consider a faith-centered plan with safety nets.
• Build a prayer-and-care circle. Set specific times. Assign roles. Share updates. Celebrate small gains.
• Act congruently. Take graded steps aligned with your hope: walk a little further, resume a class, return to a hobby. Behavior tutors belief and rebuilds capacity.
• Refuse draining debates. Offer simple testimony; conserve energy for healing practices.
• Track progress. Journal symptoms, energy, and milestones. Look for gradual arcs, not only spikes.
• Anoint and anchor. If it fits your tradition, seek anointing. Anchor in Scriptures that steady you (e.g., James 5; Isaiah 40).
• Stay teachable. If danger signs appear, re-engage clinicians. Faith and prudence are friends.

Guardrails for Safety

Consult your physician before changing medications or supports. If tapering, do so gradually under supervision. Invite a trusted friend to monitor for red flags (worsening function, new neurological signs, unsafe falls). Keep emergency plans current. Faith that respects reality is faith that endures.

A Future You Can Walk Toward

George ends with a promise and a purpose: “God has healed me and my life is His.” Whether your healing is partial, progressive, or complete, you can dedicate what returns—time, energy, movement—to serving others. Start with one person you can encourage this week. Let your story—messy, unfinished, or miraculously mended—become bread for someone else’s journey.

Straight Enough to Serve

Perfection isn’t the prerequisite; participation is. Walk the distance you can today—then a little more tomorrow, in the company of friends.

The crooked places may not all be made straight at once. But today can be straighter than yesterday—and full of the same courage and praise that carried George from the floor to the open road.