My father was a writer. He wrote all of his life, inflicting upon many of us his novels, plays, articles, essays, and self-help books. Some were marvelous; some merely well-intentioned. But of all the things he wrote, his journal is his legacy: by turns wise and bewildering, it neared 1,100 type-written pages when he died in 2010. Although perused many times, this is the first time it will be read - cover to cover, page after page.
Thursday, May 7, 2015
Back on Track
"Miracles happen" was what seemed the gospel message, and they occurred equally in the life of the official who asked the woman too timid to speak. Neither event called for the altering of nature. Instead they were the restoring of its expected course, and so the little girl lived, as little girls should, and the hemorrhage ended, as it should never have occurred.
Labels:
Church,
illness,
interpretations,
miracle
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