If I could, I’d take Miles

Jesus in skin, receiving the needy, a line of humanity bedraggled stretching before him. There, the woman bent with an issue of blood that had kept her weak. Behind her, a child, leg crippled, who’d never run, never leapt or climbed a tree. Here, a blind man. There, a mother clutching her baby.

Later that night, after the program, I heard it. Heard the story straight from her lips, how her grandbaby, precious Miles, was suffering. And with him, his mama and daddy, his grandma and “Big Grandpa.”

She told me of his seizures, those terrible fits that would grab his little body, wringing it hard and stealing all of his words. It hurt her terribly, seeing him like that, knowing they’d be right back at ground zero when it happened again, building his vocabulary one word, one phrase at a time.And who knew how long he’d keep it?

He was housebound, the little mite, for the tiniest bit of excitement, of stimuli; the merest hint of a virus could trigger another bad one. And there they’d go again…

Thinking of her, of them, of the constant danger he lived in and the stress and strain they wore like a second skin, I thought of that song. Pictured that line.

To read the rest of the story, I’d be honored if you’d join me on Suzanne Woods Fisher’s blogtoday. See you there!