Small miracles
A hospital is an interesting place. No one ever really wants to be there, and yet, so much real life is happening there. It's a place where I've welcomed my children and said goodbye to loved ones. Those walls are full of sadness and joy, desperation and hope, pain and healing, fear and relief.
I've been at the hospital a lot this week.
Last week, my mom had surgery. And right before the operation, when it was time, the nurse looked at me and said, "I'm going to take good care of your mom," with so much compassion I knew it was true.
Mom was holding a green knitted dish cloth. She told me that my stepdad's mom and some other women had prayed over it, put it in an envelope, stamped it and mailed it.
Mom gave me the cloth. She told me to hold it during her surgery. I kept it laced between my fingers for hours. Never letting it go as I read my book.
Clutching it as I rode down the elevator to get a coffee.
As I waited in line, I was soothed by the scent and the sound of the barista making lattes. Christmas music was playing. Happy, uplifting. I got a flash of holiday spirit.
I stepped back onto the elevator, and a man in a dark suit followed me inside. We were headed to the same floor. I looked at his name badge. He was from the funeral home. I wondered about the person who had died. I imagined that person's family, I wondered how they must be feeling.
I looked at the green prayer cloth, the one I was still clutching. Did I really believe it had the power to produce a miracle? I imagined those women who had prayed over it. I could see them, feel their hands. I held onto the cloth, and onto them.
More of my family members arrived and joined us in the waiting room. My phone was blowing up. So many people wanting to know how mom was doing. I was simultaneously overwhelmed by and in awe of it. How the moment had brought us together. By how many people care.
I looked around at all the people in the waiting room. So many strangers in the same situation. Some would get good news, others would not.
More waiting.
And then, the surgeon came out. Mom did fine. There was an outcome we'd been hoping for. An outcome he'd said he couldn't guarantee. But he was able to do it. That one small—but huge—thing we were all praying for.
Answered.
My stepdad eyes brimmed with tears. Relief.
A long recovery ahead. Anything can happen. Uncertainty still. But...
I keep thinking about the people who prayed, the nurse who promised to take care of my mom, the family and friends who've reached out. The surgeon who did his job to the best of his ability. The green cloth.
Small miracles.
I don't really know how to wrap this up, except to say that last night, my husband, kids and I watched The Rise of the Guardians. There's this scene at the end, when Pitch says, "YOU CAN'T GET RID OF ME! Not forever. There will ALWAYS be fear." And North says, "So what? As long as ONE child believes, we will be here to fight fear."
So, to those who believe. To those who work daily to fight fear. You are the ones who produce the miracles. You are the miracles. (click to tweet)
Thank you.
