A while back I decided I couldn’t rightfully make sense of my life in any meaningful way other than as miraculous.
Sure, on occasion, I’ve tried to convince myself I’m the primary author of my miracles, but when pressed to explain how, I can’t.
There are just too many random happenings outside my control that can be only explained as miraculous.
The common thread in them all is — I SHOWED UP.
Nobody ever encounters the miraculous when in bed, with the covers pulled up over their head.
Which reminds me of the time I showed up five years late for a miracle.
I’ve shared before the time I was beaten up, left for dead in a deserted parking lot, after a night of heavy drinking.
As I lay unconscious in the hospital being administered the last rites a miraculous thing happened — I came to. But rather than acknowledge the miracle that had just taken place, I carried on as if nothing had happened.
I spent the next five years back in the bottle, denying the miracle I had experienced.
Then, on a gloomy day in June of 1985 I once again found myself at the bottom after a night of heavy drinking, praying for the end to come soon.
But another miracle happened — the end didn’t come. I lived. And –– my alcoholic obsession was lifted.
This time I acknowledged it and made it my practice to give thanks for my miracle each and every day.
Some miracles are commonplace, some breathtakingly extraordinary — like the miracle that saved the life of Robert Lincoln, Abraham Lincoln’s eldest son.
Americans all know the searingly tragic story of President Lincoln’s assassination, one of the saddest events in our history.
The name of his assassin, John Wilkes Booth, has been etched into our collective memory.
Now think for a moment —
- What it would have been like to be Edwin Booth, the assassin’s brother?
- How on earth could he live his life in America after such an event?
Edwin, at the time, was recognized as America’s leading Shakespearean actor.
But after the assassination he was reviled, remembered only as the brother of the man who killed Lincoln.
How could he ever be expected to SHOW UP again and face the American public?
Well — HE DID.
He picked up his shattered life and SHOWED UP, never missing a performance, never missing an opportunity to face his audience with quiet dignity.
But how he must have prayed for a miracle to reclaim his name.
Then one fall afternoon something strange happened —
Robert Lincoln, the deceased president’s eldest son, was traveling by train from New York to Washington.
Young Mr. Lincoln had gotten off the train during a stop at Jersey City, only to find himself on an extremely crowded platform.
To be polite, Lincoln stepped back to wait his turn to walk across the platform. His back was pressed against one of the train cars.
Then, suddenly, he felt the train jerk forward and was whipped around, spraining his ankle and then terrifyingly dropping into the space between the platform and the train.
There he was left, hobbled, unable to hoist himself up, and looking straight into the lights of an oncoming train that would soon run him over.
Young Robert must have surely thought his life would soon be over.
But, no!
He felt the strong arms of someone pulling him up and back onto the platform. He was safe, his life had been spared.
So who was this stranger who miraculously saved the life of Robert Lincoln?
None other other than Edwin Booth.
The man who had prayed for a miracle to redeem his name had saved the life of the dead President’s son.
“There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.” ―
Just a thought…
Pat
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