This is a good week for Miracles …Posted: April 3, 2012
This seems an appropriate week to talk about miracles.
I’ve never claimed to have all of the answers. I had a religious upbringing and am a spiritual person. I’m open to the possibilities of all that I know, as well as of all that I do not know. The universe is a wide and wondrous place.
Depending upon your religious or spiritual background and beliefs, you may already believe in miracles. Faith is believing even when cerebral reason thinks otherwise.
I’ve written about Miracles here before. I’m going to do so again. I especially send this out to all of you who are are struggling, depressed, or feeling stuck in dismal situations. That was how I felt at the time this happened. I can’t exactly explain it so I’ll just report it as best I can. Some things are uncanny and sometimes coincidences and serendipity are our life preservers, or maybe just maybe there truly are miracles.
I’ll let you think what you will, but hopefully this will give you hope if you need it, or at least food for thought if you care to read of the possibilities and weirdnesses of life.
A little background, and my apologies to those of you who have been reading here from the beginning and know some of this:
I had a difficult marriage. It was my fault that I got married when I did. I should not have. I will forever have guilt for that, but I don’t regret how I stayed in the marriage as best I could for as long as I could have. I really tried, I persevered, I was the best wife and parent I could have been, my children are wonderful and I love them. But… it was bad, right from the beginning. The red flags of control were there, and then its heavy hand, among other things. If I had not been so young, so trusting, I might have seen the warning signs, and if I had not been so shattered going into my marriage, I might have known what the whole of me needed in a relationship. I am sorry and regret that I didn’t see and didn’t know.
I held myself together, more or less, but I knew that I had to get out eventually. I had been kept down for so long that Stockholm syndrome sounded familiar. I had gotten to the point where I so inwardly trembled that I couldn’t even concentrate enough to lose myself in my usual refuge of music and books, let alone could I create anything at all. Maybe parts of me were already dead. I didn’t have anyone or anyplace to turn. I felt so alone, and so scared. That feeling of standing on the edge of a cliff? Yes, I knew that feeling. I might die if I stayed, or I might die if I didn’t. I couldn’t see ahead, at all. I felt so alone in my heart.
I was alone in the house, too. It was quiet, still, and dimming toward evening. I wasn’t much of a crier, had gone through whole decades in the past when I hadn’t been able to cry at all, but I couldn’t contain myself any longer. I went to bed and sobbed.
I sobbed for hours.
And then, when I was all cried out and felt as if nothing much was left in me, I did what I had done at other times in my life when all had seemed lost: I prayed.
I grew up praying, mostly in a casual way day to day, mostly prayers of gratitude and light conversation with my God, but this– this was a plaintive prayer of desperation. I prayed, over and over, like a mantra:
“Please dear Lord, please send me a miracle. Please show me what I should do. Please Lord, I am so afraid, please send me a miracle, I am so afraid…”
(I know. What a wimp!)
I fell asleep on my wet pillowcase in the midst of my praying.
I awoke suddenly, the light too bright, the music too loud. The first thing I heard was: “Believe in miracles… I’ve a feeling it’s time to try…”
It was startling to awake to those words, to the music blaring from the radio next to me. It took me a moment to get my bearings. Had I left the radio on? No. I hadn’t had it on. So, the alarm on the radio must have been set to a music station, and must have gone off. Odd time for that, in the middle of the night; it was maybe midnight or one a.m. Who would have set an alarm for then? No one in my house, not purposely anyway.
I sat up in bed, listening to Fleetwood Mac, puzzling over this odd coincidence.
Had I just happened to wake up at the precise moment to hear that appropriate line of the song? Or, I thought maybe I had heard the song in my sleep and awakened because I had subconsciously anticipated the word “miracle”. That made sense to me. That was a possibility. So, a strange coincidence, maybe.
It was as if Someone heard my doubts and confusion. It was as if Someone thought: “That wasn’t enough of a clue for you, woman? OK then, take this–”
The phone rang.
It was my cell phone, charging next to my bed. This sound too was startling, and I felt a quiver of panic: who would call me at this hour, in the middle of the night? Not only was the late hour a concern, but the only people who had my cell phone number were a few immediate family members, amongst them my children. Mostly I used my cell to communicate with them. And, because I was a mother, I was quickly worried about my kids… calling at this hour… because they didn’t, and wouldn’t… unless there was an emergency…
My heart was pounding in my chest as I answered the phone: “Hello. Hello?”
No answer. Oh dear Lord!
“Hello? Hello?” I could hear something, but no one was answering me. I listened closely: I heard my son’s voice (I felt panic). I heard him laugh (and panic subsided somewhat). I heard him saying his name, again and again, and then someone else repeated it, and then son said it yet again to correct the mispronunciation of the other person.
I was listening to a conversation like a fly on a wall.
I was listening to an introduction, my son (then away at university) to someone else. My son couldn’t hear me. He must have… butt called me on his cell phone? He had never done that before, never has done it since.
Odd timing, to say the least. Not only that, but what I heard, over and over, was his voice and his name.
To me, this meant something, this was significant. The thing is, I have only to hear my son’s name and I think: Miracle.
This is because he was a baby who was not supposed to live. The head of obstetrics at our hospital had given him no chance of even being born. Zero/zip/nada. I won’t go into all of the details here, but when that baby was born, and born fine and healthy, the first thing that the doctor said when he put him in my arms was: “I want you to know that this baby is a miracle.”
And the last time that I had been in despair was when I was told that there was “no chance” for my baby. What I did then, after I sobbed myself empty, was to pray.
It seemed I had answers to my prayers of despair, twice. This time I’d had a reminder of the other, as if Someone had said, “Don’t you remember? Nothing is impossible.”
When I hung up the cell phone, I didn’t feel so weak. I certainly didn’t feel so alone. I felt calmed, and I felt strong and determined for the first time in years. I knew what I had to do.
The next day I learned that my son had been at a party, meeting a girl from another country, and who knows how he happened to call me.
I only know that he did, and when he did.
Coincidence, serendipity, or minor miracle. Take your pick.