My life is filled with miracles, big and small. I shouldn't be surprised by them at this point. I mean, my mother died when I was four months old and I was taken in by the coolest, kindest adoptive parents anyone could ever ask for. They taught me to pray, and because the best prayers are simple conversations with God and I talk ALL the time, I'm experienced.
While working in Los Angeles, a mega-city filled with fast-moving strangers, I found the one man in the world who would understand my need for kids, cats, and chocolate - and he fell in love with ME.
Despite a body that refused to give me children, I prayed that we'd be able to adopt a baby, and two months later (when we were told it would be two years before we would have one child) we were gifted with a family of three, ages 4, 8, and 10. Our family is now enormous with spouses, grandchildren, great-grandchildren and wonderful in-laws.
I still have my husband after more than a dozen MRSA infections and diabetes that's grown erratic after a lifetime of predictability. (It's no wonder women see firemen as such heroes. They were here last week in the middle of the night when Ron's blood sugar dropped to 25.) I was so scared, and they were so calm and competent.
So, I've grown used to the big miracles, but the little ones continue to confound me. The most recent began when the larder was low and Ron was feeling too poorly to allow me to leave him to go to the store. So I ran across the street to borrow two eggs for breakfast. Curt, my neighbor, working under the hood of his car, pointed a wrench toward his house and said, "Take whatever you need."
I could not find one egg. His wife is a caterer on the side and had been working at a conference on quilting since early morning. I concluded she must have taken every egg in the house with her.
So I walked a few houses up the street and tried another neighbor who said she'd just used her last egg in a brownie mix. I thanked her and walked home, thinking that if I couldn't have the egg, a brownie mix was a noble end for it.
I made hot cereal - not Ron's favorite - then took the dog quickly around the block. By the time I got home - I swear this is true - Ron was at the door in his walker with a big smile. "You've done it again!" he said.
All the possibilities of what I could have 'done again' ran through my mind. Melted the tea kettle onto the burner? Forgot to turn off the phone? Left the ice cream out? But he was smiling. Hm.
"Follow me," he said, and led the way to the kitchen. On the counter were four dozen eggs. I stared in disbelief. There were two one-dozen cartons, and one 24-pack.
"After you left, Curt remembered that Rosemary had taken all the eggs," he explained, "so he went to the store to get us a dozen. Barbara used her last egg, went to get herself another dozen, and got one for us, too. Then, Rosemary (the caterer) came home from the quilt thing with two dozen eggs she didn't use." He grinned at me. "You prayed for eggs, didn't you?"
This is all attributable to God's goodness and the kindness of neighbors, but on the chance that my prayer skills play any part, I'm turning my focus to the Middle East, world hunger, and racial injustice. But I might need some help. Who's with me?