41
When illness strikes. January 1976.
It is our ignorance and indifference that declare miracles a rarity. But miracles often are short-lived—fleeting, like dew at daybreak, like transient morning mist.
The howling was unmistakable—the thrashing, followed by silence, then another crash. Another chair shattered. That left four of an original eight. Connor’s voice, unintelligible in the January night, echoed from beyond the dining room. New Year’s Eve had come and gone. So had the peace.
Their private miracle had lost its luster.
Emilee listened, uncertain as to why it reminded her of a story she had heard long ago: the story as recorded in the Gospel of Matthew about the possessed men of Gadarah. Did Connor sound like them? From the dining room came the sounds of a possessed, or at le
