Hope & Miracles

by Amy Newmark

  They say that information is power, so why was it that the more I read the more powerless I became? The more I learned about spinal cord injuries the more I was consumed with fear, terror, hopelessness. I knew I would never smile again.

  I watched Jason work hard to gain as much independence as possible. The people at the VA hospital were amazing. They say when you lose one sense you gain intensity in others. Like how the blind come to “see” with their ears. Well, while his arms and legs lay still, his heart and mind kicked into full gear. I was dumbfounded by his new purpose. Suddenly he liked to read. His bookshelves were bursting at the seams. Academics became his friend. Philanthropy was on his radar. His desire to make the world better was what drove him every day. I found myself staring at him in awe.

  It took years for me to learn, to accept what was all around me, to embrace the energy that surrounds us. The power of positive people, the love of true friends, the support of a community. It is truly amazing how strong and resilient we are. It still blows my mind to know that there was laughter and joy hiding behind our tears and despair. Little by little I learned to “weed my garden,” to remove the negative forces around me, whether they were things or people. If there was anyone or anything in my reach that would allow me to return to the “darkness” I had to let it go. I had to walk away from people I had known my whole life if they were not good for my healing or the healing of my family. I had to be strong enough to move on, to say farewell.

  I gathered only hopeful, positive, loving people. I chose my army carefully. I needed people who would be strong when I was weak. I had three other children and a husband who needed me.

  The thing that amazed me the most was that Jason was my strongest soldier. He was the one sitting in that wheelchair, but he was also the one who taught me that there were two choices. The first was to allow his tragedy to swallow us up. The second was to embrace it and figure out the best road to follow so that we could get on with life.

  The proverbial “silver linings” were the lessons we learned. We learned the meaning of true friendship. We learned compassion, looking at others and realizing just how lucky we were. We learned patience since normal, everyday things took just a little longer to accomplish.

  Most of all we learned the true meaning of unconditional love. My husband and I saw, with wider eyes, just how strong our marriage was. We watched as the bond of brotherhood grew between our four sons, seeing how they meshed together in ways we never knew possible with siblings. We saw that the love of a true friend can help you breathe when you are suffocating in your own sorrow. We learned that having hope when things are hopeless is a lifeline that keeps you afloat even as the waters rise around you.

  As Jason’s mom my hope transformed many times over. In the early days, weeks, and months it was my hope that he would be “healed.” I hoped that a miracle would find its way to his door and make him “whole” again. I hoped that I would turn on the television and hear a report that they had found a cure for spinal cord injuries. I was using these hopes, as far-fetched as they might have seemed, to allow me time to heal and to feed the strength that was buried inside me. Once I was armed with the tools I needed, my hopes changed; and this time they were more attainable and in many ways more favorable to moving forward in the world we were now a part of.

  Today my hope, my dream for my son is the same as it is for all the people I care about. I hope that he loves and is loved in return. I hope that he lives his life to the fullest. I hope that he won’t allow his disabilities and/or challenges to stop him from being the very best he can be. I hope he keeps positive powers all around him. And more than anything, I hope that no matter what life throws his way, he always finds the laughter and the joy that are hiding behind the tears.

  ~Trish Bonsall

  The Missing Key

  Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding.

  ~Proverbs 3:5

  I was the oldest never-married person I knew. It wasn’t that the opportunity to be a wife had never presented itself. Proposals had come—even been plentiful—but at the age of forty I didn’t feel that any of the men had been proper candidates for a lifelong partnership. I had made so many wrong choices, experienced so many dead-end relationships. “Enough,” I had said finally. Six years had passed, and life without dating had become comfortable for me. I was enjoying a busy and productive life as a single woman, but I did still dream of the day I might actually meet “Mr. Right.”

  I had been thinking about switching to a smaller church with a stronger “family” atmosphere. One Sunday my sister attended such a church in her neighborhood and later told me about the man who led music there, a widower with two children whose wife had died of cancer. His name was Jerry Sladkey.

  Something inside me rose up. This was someone I should meet.

  The following week, I accompanied my sister to the church, and shortly afterward began attending a Bible study led by this man. I was attracted to his faith in God and to his relish for life. Though I struggled with my uncertainty about men and their motives, and Jerry struggled with loyalty to the wife he had lost to cancer nineteen months before, our relationship began to blossom slowly.

  As we got to know each other, I felt certain of one thing: I was to let Jerry make all the moves. I was not to “make” this relationship happen. In my prayer times, if I had an issue that needed to be addressed regarding our relationship, I took it to God in prayer—and trusted that He would deal with Jerry.

  Jerry still wore his wedding ring from his ten-year marriage. As the months passed and we grew closer, this began to bother me. I suspected that Jerry was growing fond of me, but why did he still feel married? One evening as we sat and talked, he spontaneously held up his left hand and said, “Does it bother you that I still wear my ring?”

  My inclination was to shout, “Yes!” But something stopped me. Instead, I responded, “If it does, I’ll just talk to God about it.”

  That night, I went home — and had that promised conversation with God.

  A couple of days later, as we talked on the phone, Jerry mentioned offhandedly that the ring finger of his left hand had suddenly broken out in a rash. The inflammation was so irritating that he had to remove his wedding ring. The rash didn’t heal for two weeks. By then, Jerry had gotten the message—and so had I. If I would trust God with the little details of my life, He would ultimately work them out in His own way.

  And so He did. At the age of forty-one, fourteen months after I met Jerry I said “I do” for the first time.

  To those who knew us, our marriage made perfect sense. It has made sense for twenty-three years now. And why shouldn’t it? Until age forty-one, my name had been Sandra Slad. God had provided the missing “key.”

  ~Sandra Sladkey

  Circle of Compassion

  Our task must be to free ourselves by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature and its beauty.

  ~Albert Einstein

  After a long hot day, I eagerly welcomed the setting sun. The long shadows falling across the scorching pavement signaled the beginning of the cooling for the night. On my way to meet friends, I pulled into a busy neighbor-hood gas station to fill the tank of my truck. As I pumped my gas, I watched the people around me. Some looked like they were on their way home from work while others appeared to be heading out for the evening. The click of the pump shutting off brought my attention back to my task. I put the gas nozzle back and closed my gas cap. I headed into the mini-mart to pay for my gas.

  As I waited in line, I overheard bits of the conversation between the young woman in front of me and the cashier. The young woman had written a check for the gas she had already pumped. The cashier’s face was pinched, her jaw set and her lips pursed as she listened to the young woman’s explanation.

  “I can’t accept this check,” the cashier said tersely. “The name you signed doesn’t match the name printed on the check. Your ID doesn
’t match the name printed on the check either.”

  I didn’t clearly hear the young woman’s reply, but I heard the pleading tone in her voice. The cashier repeated she could not accept the lady’s check as payment. The young woman said she had no cash, no credit card, just the check. As the cashier questioned her about whom the check belonged to, the tension mounted. The cashier told the young woman she was going to call the manager and then turned to wait on me.

  The scene I had just witnessed left me feeling uncomfortable. I paid for my gas and started to turn away. A line had now formed behind me. One customer shifted his weight, another fumbled with his purchase. They were becoming a bit annoyed with waiting. But I couldn’t help myself.

  I turned back to the cashier. “How much does she owe?”

  There was silence from the lady behind the counter. It was one of those moments when the stillness screams out loud. The cashier stood with her eyes boring into me. I turned and looked at the young woman’s face. I looked into her eyes and I saw something there, maybe fear, maybe desperation. Her need was so strong it was almost tangible. I didn’t know if she was a struggling single mother or even if the check was stolen. But I could clearly see she needed help and I couldn’t just stand there and do nothing. I said a quick prayer that I was doing the right thing.

  I turned to the cashier and again asked the amount of the bill. With disapproval in her voice, she told me how much the young woman owed. I ignored the cashier’s tone and dug through my purse collecting my last dollar bills, nickels, dimes, and pennies. My movements felt mechanical as I placed the bills and a pile of coins on the counter. I tried to hide my anxiety under the unfriendly eyes of the cashier. I knew I needed to do this. A man walked in from the back area and approached the counter. Surveying the scene, he gave the cashier a questioning look.

  The young woman who had been the center of the controversy stared at me. She said a quick, “Thank you.”

  I turned and nervously walked out to my truck. As I was buckling my seatbelt, the man from behind the counter ran up to my vehicle and knocked on my window. With a furrowed brow, he held up a handful of dollar bills. I rolled my window down.

  “Hi, I’m the manager,” he said, his voice catching in his throat. “I want you to take this. It’s to pay you back for the woman’s gas.”

  “No,” I replied. “I want to pay for her gas.”

  “Please take it,” he said. He paused for a moment, seeming to collect his thoughts. “I didn’t know there were still people like you left in the world. Please, take the money.” His face was twisted with a half smile and confusion. His troubled expression convinced me to accept the money. It took only a moment to realize that it was not the girl I was meant to help, but the manager. For some reason he needed my random act of kindness more than she did. For some reason he needed his faith restored.

  I thanked him and pulled out of the station. Dusk had settled in deeper and I remembered how much I love this time of day, how relaxed it always makes me feel. The last remnants of the sunset were disappearing. It took me a few moments to process my emotions about what had just happened. I was grateful I had listened to my heart, ignoring the cashier’s disapproving looks and my own doubts. I was thankful I had been in a position to help the woman pay for her gas, remembering many times when others had reached out over the years to help me. I was glad that I was able, in some small way, to give this man some kind of renewed hope.

  A calm came over me as I realized there is more to the circle of life than simply life and death. There is a circle of giving and caring, and passing these things along when the opportunity arises — a different kind of circle — a circle of love, a circle of compassion.

  ~Nancy Engler

  A Divine Letter

  Faith is taking the first step even when you don’t see the whole staircase.

  ~Martin Luther King, Jr.

  I’d moved from my hometown on the Mississippi River to Los Angeles at the age of twenty-six to work in the music business. Initially, it was stimulating and thrilling. But after four years, L.A. lost its allure. The bohemian quality I once loved in my West Hollywood neighborhood began to fade for me, and all I could see were the cracks in the sidewalk on the seedy side of town.

  Turning thirty was an awakening. I evaluated the course of my life. I kept thinking if I didn’t make a change, I’d wake up one day to find myself with permanent roots in this city where it seemed everyone jockeyed for position in one form or another. I was uninspired. I was tired. I wanted serenity. I needed a plan.

  I resigned from my job in the music business and took a position in client services at a thriving post-production facility in Santa Monica, where I was one of twelve assistants to the clients from major movie studios that came to the cluster of recording studios to synchronize audio with film. It was a unique job, something new and different, but I was still living in Los Angeles. A sensitive friend addressed my discontent by asking two simple questions: “If you could live anywhere, where would it be, and what would you be doing?”

  Ireland was my answer. I saw myself in a best-case scenario living upon verdant fields partitioned by gray stone walls on the way to the sea, writing poetry and novels. “There’s only one way to do this,” I said to my friend, “and it starts with a plane ticket.”

  It seemed once I’d made the decision, the powers that be aligned in support. After I gave my resignation to the managing director, uncanny things transpired: I’d be standing on a Los Angeles street corner just as a stranger approached to exchange pleasantries in an unmistakable Irish accent. I received useful information repeatedly from surprising quarters and it gave me a feeling of being in tune with destiny. I was certain I’d made the right decision by following my bliss.

  And there I was a year later: living by the sea on the west coast of Ireland and employed in the music business because everything had fallen into place. I was living the life I had imagined: I had friends, a rented home, a schedule, a purpose, all from a start-up business dedicated to the careers of Irish musicians. My life had certainty and security. I grew accustomed to Ireland and its cultural nuances and truly believed I’d found my place in the world.

  But the rhythm of life has an ebb and flow. By the end of that year, the tides started to turn so subtly they were imperceptible, up until the moment there was no recourse. My non-profit place of employment lost its funding, and there I was in a foreign country without a job. I was baffled and bewildered. What had seemed like destiny became ambiguity, and I was indecisive and riddled with doubt over every option I weighed. I was not ready to leave Ireland; I hadn’t exhausted her charms but it seemed all was lost, that fate had conspired against me.

  I’m the kind of person who possesses an optimistic faith in the goodness of things, that life has meaning and God has a plan. The quandary was I couldn’t see anything beyond the roads that appeared blocked. For two weeks I prayed, I meditated, I believed, and I vacillated between hope and despair. Then a letter arrived at my door.

  One of the things I had to accept about living in rural Ireland was that it took ten days for a letter to arrive from California. I lived way out in the countryside where there were no mailboxes, so the postmaster would leave my mail at my door. One day during my two weeks of quandary, I bent down to inspect a letter at my doorstep, recognizing right away it came from the United States. I tore open the envelope to discover an offer from the post-production facility in Santa Monica. I had to read it twice, I was so surprised. “The woman who hired you in client services is leaving to have a baby,” the letter began, and by the time I got to the managing director’s signature, I realized he had offered me her job.

  My first reaction was complete resistance. No way in the world I’d ever go back to L.A. I put the letter back in its envelope and threw it on the kitchen counter until my disbelief compelled me to read it again. It was then I noticed the letter’s postmark, which was only three days before. “What is this,” I said out loud, “divine intervention?
” I considered and weighed until I arrived at the conclusion I didn’t have a choice. Yet all the while, a voice in my head whispered, “Follow this; you don’t have to know why.”

  “Follow this to Los Angeles?” my petulance screamed, but that is exactly what I did. I talked myself into returning to Los Angeles by holding to faith, by deciding this might be a stepping stone along a bigger path, that perhaps someone or something would be waiting where I least expected.

  Today, I am married to the man who wrote that letter. This year, the novel I wrote inspired by my year in Ireland will be published. I now have a way of deciphering life’s supposed ambiguities, which is to say I now see life’s quandaries as full of potential. When in doubt, I don’t fall into despair. Instead, I look for a bigger picture, and if I keep my faith and narrow my eyes, I swear I can see divinity.

  ~Claire Fullerton

  The Dance Encounter that Changed My Life

  Dancing with the feet is one thing, but dancing with the heart is another.

  ~Author Unknown

  “Oh, Lord, I’m so tired of being lonely!” I deliberated about another depressing singles dance. I was closer to Medicare than college age, yet something in my spirit nudged me to persist, to never give up on finding true love.

  I had been divorced for seven years and the empty nest was looming. I dreaded being alone. Girlfriends from church had been praying for a soul mate to arrive in my life for years, yet I didn’t expect God to deliver Mr. Wonderful to my doorstep. I needed to take action, so I forced myself out the door.

  Even though the dance felt a bit like entering the movie set of Revenge of the Nerds, my policy was to accept any dance requests, out of courtesy and kindness, unless they were truly creepy. Soon a clean-cut gentleman with lots of mileage approached.

  “Let me give this old chap a thrill,” I charitably thought, being a ballroom dance teacher and priding myself on the ability to follow anyone, regardless of how inept their dancing might be.