The Saint

Sometimes the saints don't march in; sometimes they shuffle.

This one struggled, a little, in walking a straight line; in articulating a thought; in answering a question; in rising from the couch. She sank into the cushions and slept through the conversating.

When it came time, we all scooched in close, bowed our heads. I rested my hand on her leg.

She opened our praying and breathed out praise in a perfect circle, and everything made sense, suddenly: not only her words, but everything about my all day.

I understood why my phone had stopped accepting inbound calls.

I understood why the washing-machine repairman had arrived early:

 at the top, left corner of his time frame.

I understood why a friend had not been able to meet me.

I understood why I'd picked up (for once) every, single thing off the floor.

I understood why my babies had drifted off in their cribs.

God had intended to send a saint

 to pray, here, within these log walls.

And I could feel His drawing close: almost see the tipping of His head, the inclining of His ear. I could scarcely breathe; I knew it was just for me as she became everyone I've ever loved and watched ascend, with victory, to Jesus.

I opened my door, and God sent a saint shuffling in.

In this room, on my sofa, she became as much a miracle as any.