Everything falls around me a miracle. I watch multi-colored layers form; I watch a pile of miracles climb toward the sky.
My boy turns a corner: responds with respect and requests prayer for loved ones, one of whom finds a job. A surgeon enters the body of the other for a threat he finds vanished.
Tractor Man's surgery, too, goes better than expected.
At the adult home, the Wild Orange sings for Luther and--for the first time--hugs him goodbye.
The baby covers my face with kisses every morning. She learns to hug back.
I apologize to a friend and find myself forgiven.
I crack open the Word. God speaks into my heart, with love.
The visiting preacher reassures, too, with words of relationship, not religion. He encourages us to share openly the transforming power of Christ in our lives. I feel better, suddenly, in my having such a long way to go.
But when (days later) I find myself unable to move entirely past my angst, I fall to my knees and pray for help. I rise burden-free.
My friend of nineteen years drives fourteen hours, arriving on my doorstep just in time for dinner.
My beloved talks--for the first time in nigh about a decade--with a close, childhood friend whose fisherman father drowned.
Later the same day, Jim announces: "They found the missing boy curled up, alive, by a creek." Awestruck, we look at one another and cry.
Two found wet and wounded: the older gone Home to his Father, the younger--after six days of wandering--going home to his parents. Both undoubtedly in the very arms of Christ.
My beloved and I lie close and whisper, marveling, in the dark: make love as though for the first time. I've no shame in the doing or saying; God has joined, and this, too: miracle. To have been scooped up and swept away by the best man I know. To find myself loved, daily, for who I am. And for who I am not.
Not everything can always be so good: I know. But, for now, I've words to write, words to teach, and most importantly, eyes to see that everything...just everything...is a miracle.
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