The Thing that Cures

Since my surgery in August, as I tried to follow the doctors’ dos and don’ts, I have come to notice that there are medicines and remedies, treatments and tinctures but there is only one thing that truly cures, and that is love.


Knowledge grows like pebbles, piling in a child’s beach bucket. Breakthroughs, found in every branch of science (and what great chance, and care, exist right there) but none of these can be, without the spark of love.

And when that flame, an ever-present gaze, burns soft, burns slow, it shimmers quite still, a kind of hope, a glow. It’s this, that melts the hardest frown, that soothes the ache, and brings each worry down.

Love overrides the worst of things, it lends a calm and listening ear, has hands of certainty amid the rush. It knows not limit, holds not back. Love seeks to see in every place, it wants to know it’s subjects’ face.


There is a verse I read somewhere that talks of three: faith, hope, charity (love), they say the last one holds the key. So here’s the thing: to let it in. That’s got to be the job most humanly. No holds barred, even when it touches on the tenderest point of pain. Actually, especially then.

A story that I always loved involved two shoemakers who worked below their house. Such poverty they saw, a day arrived when they could not work as once before. Their tools were worn, their leather gone, they felt worn out, despair had won.


One night they went to bed, fed up and sad, knew not the carolings of day to come, just strife and pain, they thought that joy would not come back again.

Some local elves turned up, an inky hour, crept through the cracks of wall that kept the sunlight out, they worked in hush to not wake the couple up and set to making sandals, shoes and boots. With fingers nimble their job was quick, at half past dawn they shimmied out again. They left the workshop looking showroom smart. No single scrap of waste bedecked the floor (for elves are careful workmen, and they respect the poor.)

Next morning as the couple yawned their way downstairs their eyes could not take in the scene. It stood the hairs upon their necks, it made them stare. For there upon the rickety wooden bench sat rows of merchandise gleaming in every shade and flair.


‘We need not worry anymore,’ declared the man,

‘It’s true,’ the woman said, ‘We’ll sell it all, we’ll be no longer poor!’

The thing that touched me in this tale was not so much the miracle but the aim. The elves turned up with clarity, they knew the job was theirs; the plan to help was writ in script of love. The mercy that they brought, wrought out by craftsman’s glove.

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