A Prayer for Evelyn

He walked in for a miracle—and found something greater.

         I always humoured her when it came to those things.

         Never did take it too seriously.

         It wasn’t the main reason she caught my eye all those years ago, but it’s just one of her many quirks that fascinated me.

         Every day, without fail, she would be at it—falling to her knees beside the bed, kneeling before the small makeshift shrine in the corner of our living room, or even silently mouthing prayers on the bus. Her fingers moved reverently across the beads, lips repeating prayers so often that I learned them by heart—me, a non-believer.

         Oh, she tried to convert me. Sometimes, she’d joke that my soul was destined for the fiery pits of Hell. I’d laugh and admit the Devil had always kept a seat warm for me.

         She never really laughed at that one.

         We never forced our three children to choose between our beliefs, though they naturally gravitated toward hers. While I was absorbed in what Science and Facts could explain, she gently guided them through Sunday Schools and Midnight Masses, quietly laying the foundation of their faith.

         “We’ll pray for you, Daddy,” I’d hear now and then—more often from the grandkids. I’d nod, accept their kisses, and welcome whatever prayers they could spare for their grumpy old man.

         Never would I imagine I’d need those prayers so very much at this time.

         I sigh and shuffle down the sidewalk, my cane barely keeping me steady as I study the uneven cobblestones beneath my feet.

         Passersby glance curiously at me. I’ve been standing outside this place for over thirty minutes.

         I clear my throat and look up at the towering structure beside me. Gothic and imposing in its grandeur, the church’s intricately carved wooden doors are wide open, silently beckoning.

         Inside, the solemn notes of the organ rise. It's time.

         If I don’t go up in flames first that is.

         Might as well get this over with, Michael Joseph Allen, I tell myself as I begin the tentative climb up the steps. How hard can this be, eh?

         However, I am speechlessness once I step into the cool interior. My breath catches in my throat at the magnificence yet simplicity of wooden pews – shiny with age – that face an altar that appears to shimmer beneath the blades of light passing through stained glass windows.

         Tears, unable to be held back, spring to my eyes at the looming figure of the crucified Christ, who even in His suffering still manages to look at me with an understanding that has me falling to my knees in silent supplication.

         I don’t know what to say.

         I cannot find the words.

         All I can see is her pallid features stuck beneath tubes and wires as Science and Facts strain to keep her alive. For almost a year, Science and Facts have denied me the pleasure of seeing her beautiful blue eyes or hearing her lithe voice that always warmed my heart. Science and Facts have sapped away the meat from her bones, leaving barely hanging flesh despite being fed with liquid nutrients shoved down her throat.

         Science and Fact has claimed that I should give up hoping for the best. They have decreed that I end her suffering.

         Yet, I refuse to give in.

         If Science and Facts can’t grant me the rest of my days with her, then maybe the God she’s always believed in—the one she thanked for every blessing, for our children, our grandchildren—maybe that God can give her just a few more years. Hasn’t she earned that much?

         Rise, my child, a voice says, snapping me back.

         For a heartbeat, I think it's Christ speaking.

         But no—it's a young priest. I blush as he helps me to my feet.

         “I really don’t know what to say…Father,” I confess as he leads me to a pew. “I’ve never done this before…I can’t lose my Evelyn. I just ca-can’t-”

         The tears come again, and I am reminded of how weak I truly am – in body and spirit.

         “He already knows,” he says gently, clasping my hand.

         Then he begins to pray the words I could never form. I let his voice wash over me—his faith wrapping around my weary soul, just like Evelyn’s used to during my darkest days. The same prayers I once mocked now soothe my pain and remind me of their strength.

         When he finishes, he squeezes my hand and meets my gaze.

         “Believe, Mr. Allen. That’s all you need to do. Believe.”

         I believe in Science and Facts, I try to tell myself as I leave the soothing confines of the church and into the unforgiving city heat. Yet, I am unable to explain the curious certainty and peace that has settled within my heart.

         She’s all right now, someone whispers behind me.

         I turn; perhaps wondering if the priest has returned, but when the buzz of my phone jerks me from my moment of confusion, and I retrieve it with trembling hands, the notification has me gasping in silent disbelief.

She’s awake, Dad! She’s awake!

         “I don’t…believe it,” I mutter even as I look up and at the building in awe; where moments earlier, I had bared my soul in desperation.

         It was a miracle. How else was there to explain it?

         Where Science and Facts had failed…something else – intangible yet powerful - had made this possible.

         God is good, my Evelyn would have said in this moment, and for the first time in my life, I find myself repeating the words aloud for anyone who cares to listen.

         “Yes, He is, my dearest! God is good!”









---------------------

Word Count: 941
Prompt: Write a story or poem about a modern day miracle.
Written For: "The Writer's Cramp"