I have been praying for a baby. I have old-dog-induced insomnia. She wakes me up at 4 am and then I pray.

Think and pray

Acknowledge the tug-of-war between what is seen (“it will take a miracle”)

And what is unseen

Jesus knows the names and social security numbers for all the tardigrades that have ever lived

He counts the stars as he speaks them into being

He magnifies both faith and prayer

I think about the newborn child

(miraculous already)

While Jesus tells one of his math parables—

Matthew 18:11-14 KJV
[11] For the Son of man is come to save that which was lost. [12] How think ye? if a man have an hundred sheep, and one of them be gone astray, doth he not leave the ninety and nine, and goeth into the mountains, and seeketh that which is gone astray? [13] And if so be that he find it, verily I say unto you, he rejoiceth more of that sheep, than of the ninety and nine which went not astray. [14] Even so it is not the will of your Father which is in heaven, that one of these little ones should perish.

The number of stars in the universe denies our ability to comprehend

He loves that baby

And leaves sextillion stars behind to turn

“Danger” into “Garden”

For one baby

For all of them.

https://narnia.fandom.com/wiki/Letitia_Ketterley

The girls waterfall read as Jadis demands a chariot, Andrew begins to realize he is out of his depths, and Aunt Letty utters one of the greatest rebukes in fictional Christendom.

Lewis, blessedly, does not ship his darlings and allows Letty to be spared by her own modest industry. She lands on a mattress she was mending.

His voice is clear in the kitchen, as is the Aslan he introduced us all to.

I aspire to be like Letty. A stalwart soul, fending off harm with stout heart and no nonsense.

I read the last one to her and she said write another one

As she counted the fruit (mostly apples) from “Honey Many”

One could say that the love and justice remain

In a box of fruit sent from a long way off

When every second, every moment, every minute-hour-day-spiral of the earth around this lovely sun

Slingshots is closer

To Home.

I have a beloved child

Who likes to say things like

But why? and it isn’t fair!

she reminds me of me

Snarking at God when

My little world is not all He sees

And his answers are

“Love” and “Justice/just Us”

Respectively.

Isaiah 53:3-5 KJV
[3] He is despised and rejected of men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief: and we hid as it were our faces from him; he was despised, and we esteemed him not. [4] Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows: yet we did esteem him stricken, smitten of God, and afflicted. [5] But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed.

Someone I love was bitten by ants. I am praying for this person while I search the internet for remedies. This painful, episodic grief leads me to ponder what happens each time Jesus miraculously heals someone.

Most of us would prefer to think his unstoppable divine power pours out over the sufferer, which is true…but not all.

He thoroughly and completely absorbs the pain, the grief, the horror of human afflictions in a way that is both unspeakable and necessary.

He has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows.

He is the Remedy.

Matthew 8:14-17 KJV
[14] And when Jesus was come into Peter’s house, he saw his wife’s mother laid, and sick of a fever. [15] And he touched her hand, and the fever left her: and she arose, and ministered unto them. [16] When the even was come, they brought unto him many that were possessed with devils: and he cast out the spirits with his word, and healed all that were sick: [17] That it might be fulfilled which was spoken by Esaias the prophet, saying, Himself took our infirmities, and bare our sicknesses.

Many years ago I self-published three small, obscure books. One was a memoir about loss, one was a poetry book for a wedding, and the third was this—

I have always loved the cover of this book. Fierce Angels is about loss and traveling through grief, but the children on the cover are so lovable.

My beautiful daughter has been counting down the days until Halloween, despite my deep trepidation about its origins and practice. She said she wanted to be an angel, so I bought wings and diaphanous capes, and an archangel costume.

She wore it to the river after the sun came out. She was so beautiful and shimmery and I suddenly realized that God had made my beautiful book cover real in her, a fierce angel.

What else can he do?

Raise the dead?

Set the captives free?

He is the miracle God.