People ask me sometimes how a horror writer can believe – and write – about things like Good and Evil, God and Devil. Here’s an example:

Yesterday my wife was cooking lunch for the kids. She opened the oven door, and my infant son – less than a year old, just learning to pull himself up things – came around the kitchen corner. He’d been playing “tag” with his VERY good older brothers and sisters.

He saw the oven.

He pulled himself up onto the inside of the oven door. Both hands planted on a 500-degree surface.

I saw it all, and panicked. I could only scream.

He was in my wife’s blind spot, so she didn’t know what was happening for a long moment. Long enough for his scream to finally get through. Both hands on the inside of the oven door. Him shrieking, me shrieking.

She yanked him away. Doused his hands in water from the sink. Filled a bowl. I forced his little hands in the bowl, him shrieking all the while. We screamed at the children to get in the car get in the car we’re going to the hospital get in the car NOW!

We started to the car.

He stopped crying.

We dared look at his hands.

There was not a mark. They weren’t even red.

The people who were marked the worst by the event were the kids – who felt terrible for letting him get away from them – and my wife and I, who had SEEN what happened, and KNEW what the outcome should be.

Do I believe in God?

Yes.

Do I believe He steps in from time to time?

Yes.

Do I believe in miracles?

Absolutely.

This isn’t to say I believe life is meant to be happy in all ways – or even most. It’s a trial, it’s a test. But sometimes…

Sometimes…

We are blessed to See.

This isn’t meant to convince anyone. I respect those who believe differently, who choose to look at a different world than mine.

But this IS my world.

A world of small, unmarked hands. A baby who sleeps content.

A world of miracles.
People ask me sometimes how a horror writer can believe – and write – about things like Good and Evil, God and Devil. Here’s an example:

Yesterday my wife was cooking lunch for the kids. She opened the oven door, and my infant son – less than a year old, just learning to pull himself up things – came around the kitchen corner. He’d been playing “tag” with his VERY good older brothers and sisters.

He saw the oven.

He pulled himself up onto the inside of the oven door. Both hands planted on a 500-degree surface.

I saw it all, and panicked. I could only scream.

He was in my wife’s blind spot, so she didn’t know what was happening for a long moment. Long enough for his scream to finally get through. Both hands on the inside of the oven door. Him shrieking, me shrieking.

She yanked him away. Doused his hands in water from the sink. Filled a bowl. I forced his little hands in the bowl, him shrieking all the while. We screamed at the children to get in the car get in the car we’re going to the hospital get in the car NOW!

We started to the car.

He stopped crying.

We dared look at his hands.

There was not a mark. They weren’t even red.

The people who were marked the worst by the event were the kids – who felt terrible for letting him get away from them – and my wife and I, who had SEEN what happened, and KNEW what the outcome should be.

Do I believe in God?

Yes.

Do I believe He steps in from time to time?

Yes.

Do I believe in miracles?

Absolutely.

This isn’t to say I believe life is meant to be happy in all ways – or even most. It’s a trial, it’s a test. But sometimes…

Sometimes…

We are blessed to See.

This isn’t meant to convince anyone. I respect those who believe differently, who choose to look at a different world than mine.

But this IS my world.

A world of small, unmarked hands. A baby who sleeps content.

A world of miracles.