For more than six years now, I have asked for a large miracle; "bring her back," but that miracle has not manifested itself. So, as the oft-spoken saying goes, "I am thankful for small miracles."
Sure, I would welcome an experience reminiscent of "The Miracle of the Sun" experienced by Lucia, Jacinta and Francisco when Mary visited the three children but, now that I have come to more clearly understand life, and yes death, I suppose that would be a bit much to expect, now wouldn't it?
It's now been quite some time since I first asked for a miracle; and yes, it was a gigantic miracle I was searching for. I begged for that divine intervention into what seemed all too inevitable. My pleas for that miracle went unanswered and I'll readily admit that I was devoid of even a sliver of faith.
I find that I have become far more patient than I once was. Maybe impatience is a quality reserved for the young of years and those with innocent hearts. Regrettably, I must conclude that I possess neither of those qualities. As I rub the night from my eyes each morning, I find it increasingly difficult to look forward to yet another day. A day that pulls me from my bed and forces me to accept my life as it is; at least until those small miracles began to come my way.
There have been small miracles taking place all around but, for a time, I was too bitter, too filled with grief to see them -- the evening breeze on my face as I go for my daily walk; that breeze that signals the end to yet another day, the early Tuesday morning sun that causes my eyes to squint as I roll the old green trash container to the end of the driveway and the smell of the fresh-cut hay that originates in the meadows near my house and is carried across the fields by gentle summer breezes.
I finally opened my heart and learned to appreciate the sounds made by the black and brown cows as they graze in the pasture. My sadness in my eyes faded and I can now enjoy the sight of the hawk as it rests perched atop the fence post just waiting to catch a glimpse of a potential meal. I stand motionless while on my daily golf course walk and appreciate the deer that runs across the golden grass on its way to the gently rolled hilltop that rises on the other side of the road.
For a time, I looked upon these small miracles with a shameful cavalier attitude, but that was before I realized how important the sum of something's parts is. Those small miracles were beautiful in and of themselves but, when added together, the product of that calculation is nothing less than miraculous.
What if miracles follow the rules of mathematics, particularly addition? Looking at the issue of small and large miracles from that perspective, maybe all the small miracles in the past six years of my life add up to one large miracle.
I suppose that one could argue that all of these seemingly small miracles which have taken place over these past six years might, when added together, equal one large miracle. That miracle I will call the ability to carry on. No, not as though nothing has happened, but in spite of one of life's tragedies, the death of Robin.
I came to a decision. I resolved that I would consider these rather ordinary and everyday things to be small pieces of a much larger puzzle. Furthermore, I concluded that, when pieced together as one might do when completing that puzzle, the finished product, the sum of its parts, must surely be nothing less than a full-blown, irrefutable and wondrous thing, a miracle.
In the weeks, months and yes, even years following her death, I saw no path worth taking but I hoped that life would prove worth living, and indeed it did. That's not to say that I don't think of my dearest wife of so many years each day and every night before I fall asleep but I think of her life, not her death -- what a glorious miracle!
I remember the more than four decades we were together and I smile when I think of all the wonderful moments during our marriage. I recall the sound of her laughter, the way she combed her hair and the smile on her face. I remember how her mere presence warmed the room. Yes, I do believe that all the little miracles have come together to form one spectacular miracle -- the miracle of healing.
Some paths must be traveled alone. Robin began her journey some time ago and, for the more than six years that followed, I too walked a path all alone. It was an unfamiliar unpaved path and those are truly the ones that test our resolve. I needed to find my way and now I realize that the venture itself was just life testing me -- a test to see if I could find my way. I don't pray that God may bring to me someone to love, as he already and, some years ago, answered that prayer.
Many things fade with the passage of time but the memory of that last kiss which I placed on her frail cheek will last for as long as I live and I will be reminded of that kiss with every breath I take -- how miraculous!
I pause in awe when I consider just how far my dreams have taken me. Oh, what a wonderful miracle! I now look back on those many years alone and sadly understand how many of life's small miracles I missed. The wind as it lifted my hair off of my forehead, the bright sunlight that caused my eyes to squint and the smell of the freshly mowed grass in the field.
When the nights seem to pass so slowly and heaven appears so very far away, I look up at the beautiful star-speckled sky and know that this creation and the accumulation of small and everyday wonders must surely be only bits and pieces of a much larger phenomenon -- the miracle of life in its entirety -- oh how miraculous!
Stan Fine is a retired police officer and Verizon Security Department investigator who, after retiring in 2006, moved from Tampa, Fla., to Noel, Mo. Stan's connection to Noel can be traced back to his grandparents who lived most of their lives there. Stan began writing after the passing of his wife Robin in 2013. Opinions expressed are those of the author.
Editorial on 03/26/2020