New Zealand's Greatest Doctor:
Ulric Williams of Wanganui
A Surgeon who became a Naturopath
By Brenda Sampson
Explosive Healing
When Mrs Dawson arrived from the south, she was certainly ill. She was 53 and looked a sick 75. "I've got cancer," she groaned, "they were going to operate and I couldn't stand it. I know it will kill me." "Where is the growth?" I asked, "In my breast," she replied. "Well, better let me see it." Slowly she undid her garments. Thin to the point of emaciation she had no breast, only a fold of skin with, sticking out half way down a lump the size of half a lemon and as hard as a green pear.
It has been stressed in these articles that the real disease is often a powerful negative emotion, the form it takes outwardly being determined by some impression that has got or been put into the unconscious (creative) mind.
Knowing this and noting her miserable appearance, "Have you been afraid of such a trouble?" I enquired. "I've lived in horror of it," she replied, "ever since my mother and my elder sister died of it." So there you have it - a violent destructive emotion of fear given form by vivid visual impressions. "I feared a fear," confessed Job, "and it came upon me."
But that wasn't all: her house had been burnt to the ground with every stick and sliver she possessed; and her only son had been smashed to a pulp in a motorbike accident. "I always knew that would happen," Mrs Dawson had been in the habit of predicting: "Thou shalt decree a thing, " warned Eliphaz to Job, "and it shall be established unto thee."
Beware! Individually and nationally we are pretty much what our primary impulses and unconscious recorded impressions have made us, modified, that is, to the degree that developing intelligence (which is a faculty of Spirit) has been able to take over control.
Meanwhile the Cancer Campaign, and authority in general, squander endless time and vast sums of money saturating the mass mind with terrifying emotions and pictures of disease.
Mrs Dawson's problem was obvious enough: her palsied fear must be overcome. But panic stricken victims cannot "not fear". They must learn to trust: induced actually to live as if the God Power, of which we are all constructed, and by which we are all actuated, can be relied on, literally to control and direct; to keep us well; to supply our needs; to replace disease with ease, and restore order instead of disorder.
Mrs Dawson could stay in our Rest Home only three weeks. Twenty-one days, to effect a revolutionary change in a spiritually unborn babe.
Had she any ideas on religion I asked. "Oh yes," she claimed, "I'm a Christian,and I have perfect faith in God." Well, well! Here she is tearing herself to shreds and tatters with fear, and supposing that because she attends some church and makes the appropriate noises she has faith! While wherever she goes she broadcasts pessimism and hopeless despondency.
After a fortnight of futile striving, the problem was still how to implant a positive conception of Life. She was a wet blanket in the Home; and the other patients were being affected. (We all are, by one another, for good or ill.) At last, in some trepidation, I decided to try dynamite, to open a road for truth by blasting out her seemingly immovable fears.
Next morning I went straight to her; and with a menacing expression; "Please go to your room. I have something to say to you." In her room I shut the door sharply. "Sit there," I ordered, and drew up a chair opposite her.
"Now," I blazed, "you are going to get what's been coming to you this last thirty years. You rotten old hypocrite, creeping round this lovely world spreading gloom and despair. Calling yourself a Christian and bringing the name of Christ into stinking disrepute wherever you go. People look at you and shudder. "If that's a Christian," they say, "thank God I'm a pagan."
For several minutes I roasted her, till it was evident she'd had enough. Then I left, slamming the door behind me, BANG. "If that doesn't fix her," I said to myself, "she has probably had it." I was even feeling a bit shaken myself.
Next morning at the Home, I could see her fifty yards away across the lawn. What a transformation! The difference between a gathering storm on a winter's night and a glorious spring morning.
"I see you've given in," I ventured quietly. "I couldn't help it," she confessed, " I never slept a wink all night." (No, I thought, I didn't mean you to.) "At five o'clock," she continued, "I couldn't stand it any longer. I got up, knelt by my bed; and gave up all my fears to God."
"God bless you, Darling," I said, "then you are healed" I could have kissed her shoes.
It had been a calculated risk. If she had not responded she might have gone to pieces altogether. This method is to be resorted to only with discrimination. But it is a fact that some of our most conspicuous successes have come about through its use.
For the remaining week Mrs Dawson was the life and light of the Home. She was a different person. The day before she left I asked about the growth. "Don't know," she admitted, "I haven't given it a thought." At my request, in her room, she let me examine the breast. There was no sign of the growth. It had gone completely.
Twelve months later she wrote: "I have just completed the happiest year I have ever known." And further down, underlined right across the page, "and I know now that for me disease can never exist."
