My father and his cousin
reminisced some 80 years,
speaking of their Grandpa’s mules,
his bass voice, life on the farm.
I scribbled notes,
history from unlikely men.

Then through their tales
I met the man; his life
and mine came to a turn.
Faith healing. As calm
as telling of apologies
to mules. Impossible?
These men weren’t fools.
And they believed.
They believed.
Specific words, details.
A severed toe attached.
Even a bleeding mule cured —
by telephone, no less.

*ERROR*ERROR*
*DOES NOT COMPUTE*
I believe in healing,
long ago, far away,
but not in my blood.
Not so calm, so sure.
Now I know my thoughts
were flawed,  my God too small.
He can use me and mine
if we but stand aside.