The Miracle
Every day there was less to eat in the cupboards. My insides felt shrunken and I wanted to lie down most of the time. Mumma would cry herself to sleep at night and ask in her dreams, “What have you done to us my husband?” The man to which our father owed a great deal of money came regularly to our door. He’d point his pudgy fingers at my brother and I. “Those boys will be mine by the end of the month.” Mumma had given him almost every possession but he wouldn’t be happy until he’d pillaged us of hope. We heard the commotion before we knew what it was about. A prophet was in town. I imagined a man, eyes blazing fire, hair unkempt with flowing robes. But when we saw him in the crowd, he looked as normal as any other man. Suddenly my mother surged forward and knelt in the dust, calling to the prophet, bold and desperate. “Your servant my husband is dead,” her voice cracked with emotion. “ And you know that he revered the Lord. But now his creditor is coming to take my two boys as h
