Bev Vines-Haines

Some people say miracles are a thing of the past.  I disagree.  I’m not talking about those trite miracles: new babies, a butterfly popping out of a cocoon or somebody’s goiter disappearing.  Not at all.  I live for more realistic miracles. 

I was born in 1900 so I’m nineteen now.  In my opinion miracles are winding down.  The world has been at war for three years and I’ve already lost my two oldest brothers.  Only on exceptional days do no new names appear in the town square, announcing another young man lost to the future.  That’s a kind of miracle.

At first I prayed.  Don’t know if there is a Patron Saint of war but I am almost certain there is no saint for peace.  So I find my own miracles and write them in a little journal I keep in my pocket.

Like my neighbor Tony Wasilew who died in his sleep when he turned sixty.  He managed to slip his life in between the War Between the States and the War to End All Wars.  He lived in peace and had seven sons.  Now two of those sons and a grandson lie dead on foreign soil. 

But Tony?  He is a miracle.

Apples are miracles.  So are gardens that have time to produce. 

I made up my own Saint.  Saint George of Survival.  When I wake terrified in the night I cling to George and call his name. 

Waking to the sun?


First published: November 2017
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