I believe in miracles, in intercessions and the power of prayer. I write not to convince another but to speak in testament of my own faith.
For four days, my daughter has been ill. Her stomach hurts. She runs in and out of fever. Her throat aches. She makes movement in improvement, then regresses back to pains.
She went to the doctor today—tests but no treatment—and ever since returning home: she’s slept.
As she does, I light a candle to shine over her while she sleeps. I ask for intercession of one that once loved and cared for a son. I say prayer without words, only spirit-sense, that—with blessing—my daughter will improve.
She sleeps well. Her blankets and sweats keep her heated to burn the bug away, and as the light of the candle shines, I have faith—come morning—she will be restored.
I believe in miracles; especially those as common and everyday as, when praying “thy will be done,” to witness sickness runs its course and a hurting child healed, restored full to life again.
I leave the candle glowing, casting spirit of warmth and light while—in sleep—my daughter heals.