“Job 23:8-10 Margrethe said, “What did you do with the soap?”
I took a deep breath, sighed it out. “Did I hear you correctly? You’re asking what I did with the soap?”
“What would you rather I said?”
“Uh—I don’t know. But not that. A miracle takes place…and you ask me about a bar of soap.”
“Alec, a miracle that takes place again and again and again is no longer a miracle; it’s just a nuisance. Too many, too much. I want to scream or break into tears. So I asked about the soap.”
I had been halfway to hysteria myself when Margrethe’s statement hit me like a dash of cold water. Margrethe? She who took icebergs and earthquakes in her stride, she who never whimpered in adversity…she wanted to scream?
“I’m sorry, dear. I had the soap in my hands when you were shaving me. I did not have it in my hands when I rinsed my face.
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