Sometimes the miracle is not in
the bud’s opening
or the fern’s unfolding.
It’s not in the foal’s
rise to its feet
or the sparrow’s first flight.
It’s not always even
in the healing of the sick
or the raising of the dead from their beds.
Although miracles they may be,
of such weight that our measure
of God’s hand
is often made
by how much life is
wrested back from death.
Yes, the miracle is not always
in how much of worth has been restored
or in what has been kept.
The miracle sometimes is
in being able to surrender to the fire
and the potter’s wheel.
It’s true that no clay is strong
until its glaze
has known the oven’s heat.
The miracle is not in new birth alone.
Sometimes the miracle is in knowing the gift of life
and having the strength to let it go.
God knows the real miracle might be
in our eyes closing to the sun’s setting
and opening again to dawn’s light.
Ana Lisa de Jong
Photo: Carol Haines
One thought on “A Poem: Miracles”
So true to the season and how marvellous that you can provide the words to illustrate what we feel sometimes and cannot express ourselves – often too busy or tired to take it all in and just enjoy the moment. I saw Carrick in the so beautiful, he would have loved it. love you, mum
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