Last night I pulled out two oranges that had been in the fruit bin at the bottom of my fridge for a very very long time. I’m not talking days. I’m not talking weeks. I’m talking months. I needed some citrus though, and guessed it was time to face what was in that plastic bag. Maybe I could salvage a slither.

I pulled one out and squeezed it. It felt pulpy, and the other one felt the same way. I figured when I’d opened it, there would be a lot of rotten black fruit inside. So I sliced it opened and prepared for the worse. What I got instead was a perfectly good looking orange. It looked as if it were freshly picked, and it tasted that way too. Dudley, himself, enjoyed a piece.

Before I ate it, though, I wondered if there were some kind of miracle marker in that fruit. I looked for a sign like maybe the face of Jesus.  I found no faces.  Nothing was there. I guess you only get faces on grilled cheese sandwiches. So I’m going to assume that the fact the orange itself was still in its fresh state after months is proof enough of a miracle even without the face of a prophet to tell me so.