Miracle Stories

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Grace is the wind,
when the hand
of a tenacious spirit
moves a fallen leaf
through the colors
of the seasons.

Still sounds
of a dimly lit house,
a cross town setting,
at the foot
of a railroad junction.

In the eyes
of a little boy,
who stands
at the front door,
lost in wonder
the Western Maryland
lives on
churning up the track.

When he faced
the conjured demon,
I was busy,
only five hours
into a ten hour day,
miles away.
He stood
in the shadow of death
as it surrounded him.

The fire grew
and engulfed the room.
Around him,
the heat was intense.
Pictures on the wall
began to melt.

In the distance,
between two pillar candles,
the words
of the King James
were left lying.

A sword,
to sheer the billows
of smoke,
kept the path open.

A comforting hand
held him tightly
and looked to see
the wonder of innocence;
in the eyes of my son.

Grace granted
his freedom.

Every tomorrow
that yearns to be seen
every yesterday
that sleeps
in the bosom of the spirit

yielded by the Grace of the Son.

I am a man
who embraces his son.

He sits on my lap
in this dimly lit
cross town home;
where the Western Maryland
churns up the track.

Again, this little boy
sees fire
in front of him.

With the wind
Grace granted,
He blows out the candles
on his birthday cake.


Just a note: My bible was laying on a cedar chest between two tall candlesticks in the middle of the room where the fire occurred. Everything in that room was burned, charred, or melted except the cedar chest, the candles and candlesticks and my bible that had a plastic coated cover. Not one of these things had any soot, marks or any other signs on them of being in a fire.

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