On Miraculous Healing

Allison Ruvidich On Miraculous Healing

She talks about a miracle she saw Once in an Orthodox church: a Cross That struck, and shivered—stuck— Upon some poor believer who was healed. It made her dwell upon those hallowed lines: If I may touch his clothes, I shall be healed. And so she prays it comes to pass for us, That our faith be some sweet and healing gift. But I have walked in holy cities, too, And drunk the sacred waters where they flowed, Have listened to the saints and known them true, Have asked for healing and been told, “Not you.” What is a miracle but a lightning change That snatches us from one form to the next? She has some perfect form in mind, and blessed, That she would trade my earthly dwelling for. But she did not pray for these writing hands Or for the pen that pressed these words. Perhaps for miracles, I’ve been over-served And have not faith enough to cure the rest. I will not be her passion play, but would Prefer to whip faith-lenders from my door And stack the last five years and cry, “How much more Am I to ask the one who gave me wit, Or words, and ask them why or where?” (I tire of shaking holy water from my hair) But let this be enough—and seek no more Holy spring for me, or some old rite. We change not in lightning but in life. She says she prays for healing, but she’s wrong. She prays for change, but I’ll take my miracles long.