Here is a miracle cure from the Rebbe:
Then, as now, Benjamin traveled a good deal for his business. But one day he flew home after a trip to Thailand, and when I picked him up from the airport, I could see, even from a distance, that something was wrong. He was limping, and he looked ill - pale, drawn and obviously in pain. He insisted he was fine, but he couldn't fool me.
Something was very wrong.
By the next morning there was no question - he was in excruciating pain, and his whole body was in a state of spasm. He couldn't walk or move his legs, and even his speech was affected. We saw the doctor and Benjamin was immediately hospitalized, although no one knew what was wrong. Over the next several days he underwent test after test but nothing proved conclusive. All the while, he was getting worse and worse. At times he was partially paralyzed, but all the time he was in serious pain. He wasn't even able to get out of bed by himself. I went to the hospital several times a day to bring the kosher food we regularly ate - which seemed especially important at that point - but as I watched, he continued to deteriorate day by day. The days turned into weeks, and when even the painful bone marrow tests gave no indication of what the problem could be, I started losing home, fast.
The worst day was about a month after he'd been hospitalized. I arrived at the hospital slightly earlier than usual and came upon my usually stoic husband collapsed in tears. Seeing him so distraught removed the last of my own defenses. I was terrified. I went to the doctors, demanding they tell me what was wrong, convinced that they knew, and were hiding something from me. They insisted: "We don't know. We have no idea what it could be." And since they didn't know the cause, they had no clear indication of what treatment to begin. "We need more tests," they said, over and over again. How long would this go on? I asked. The doctors shrugged. "We don't know. Maybe in a few months things will improve."
Months more? I was stunned by the bleak prognosis - no, it was more than that. I was depressed, I was frustrated and I felt totally lost. My husband was the strong one, our protector, and the one who always knew what to do. With him so very ill, I was alone and frightened. I didn't know what to do, or where to turn. I went home from the hospital that day, exhausted and depressed, and as I walked in the door, my phone was ringing.
I was my usual weekly call from Rabbi Moshe Lazar, a Chabad rabbi in Milan who'd become a good friend. How was my husband? He wanted to know. I couldn't answer. All I could do was cry.
Rabbi Lazar held out a straw of hope I hadn't thought of before. "Why don't we ask for a bracha (a blessing) from the Rebbe?" he asked. "The Rebbe" was the Lubavitcher Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson, residing in the Crown Heights neighborhood of Brooklyn, New York. I had never met the Rebbe, but I had heard stories. Everyone had. The Rebbe was said to be a holy, G-dly man able to do many otherworldly things. So, why not? I thought. At this point, I was desperate, and besides, it couldn't hurt.
I gave Rabbi Lazar my husband's name and his mother's name so the proper bracha could be said, and he said he would call New York that very night. I thanked him, and we hung up.
I was grateful, of course, and having at least done something, I felt a small sense of peace. But if I told you now I had confidence in a miracle of some kind, that would not be true. Maybe, maybe...
The next morning, looking for some company and moral support for a day I expected to be exhausting, I invited my father-in-law to come with me to the hospital. As we walked in, I remembered the blessing Rabbi Lazar had said he'd request, but decided against mentioning it to my father-in-law. No point in both of us being disappointed. We stepped out of the elevator on the third floor, and I looked down the hall toward the door of my husband's room.
Can you imagine our surprise when we saw my formerly-paralyzed husband walking toward us in the hall, without crutches?
Again, all I could do was cry - in fact, we all did. As well as I was able to between sobs, I told the story of Rabbi Lazar's call the night before, the request for a blessing from the Lubavitcher Rebbe, and now....look!
There was, of course no medical explanation from the doctors as to what the problem had been, or what had cured it. They simply didn't know. And neither was there ever a clear explanation, in my mind, for all the whys I had accumulated. Why us? Why my husband? Why was he chosen for the affliction - and then for the miracle cure?
from:
http://www.lchaimweekly.org/lchaim/5767/974.htm
Other links:
http://www.ohrtmimim.org/Torah_Default.asp?id=890
here's a video one:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S6Hlk1vRuRM
This last video is especially interesting. The Rebbe pulled off the miracle years after his physical death - which has not dissuaded some of his followers. The Rebbe's influence is used through his writings. Watch it - it is in Hebrew with subtitles.
You are right that curing the sick is not the main point of the Jewish concept of the Messiah. Nor is it the main point of Jesus, as far as I can tell. Miracle stories are popular, nonetheless.