The Miracle: a true-life poem

These memories,
I ask my therapist,

What do I do with them?
How do I deal with them?

Do I live with them forever?
Do they ever go away?

I am half-expecting a miracle.
After all, hasn’t this man taken
years of extra schooling, training
to give me my miracle?

He looks down at his notes,
up at me,
and proceeds to say that

I cannot be rid of them.
No one can.

They stay.

Weeks pass.

A sunny afternoon,
I read the words of
God’s earthly vicar:

Christian life is not a spa therapy.
Christian peace is an uneasy peace.
Christ became sin for me!

There is the miracle.


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