September 18, 2012

Sometimes things happen in life that cannot be explained.  If I hadn't been present, I wonder if I would believe my own story.  We received a call last Thursday that my husband's brother was gravely ill, and the doctors had suggested the family come at once.  We set out with heavy hearts for the long drive to Pittsburgh.  But sometimes, despite the odds, despite conventional medical wisdom--something happens that can only be described as a miracle.  My brother-in-law was surrounded by prayers, powerful prayers, and those prayers and the love of his family brought him back to us.  The doctors couldn't explain it.  The nurses couldn't explain it.  After being unresponsive, he opened his eyes...and his first words were to his wife..."I love you."  Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

Before we arrived at the hospital, his heart had stopped several times and machines were breathing for him.  When we left the hospital, he was talking back to the referees on the televised Steelers' football game.  Welcome back, Aaron.


by Walt Whitman

WHY! who makes much of a miracle?
As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach, just in the edge of the
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love--or sleep in the bed at night with
any one I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with my mother,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive, of a summer forenoon, 10
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds--or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sun-down--or of stars shining so quiet
and bright,
Or the exquisite, delicate, thin curve of the new moon in spring;
Or whether I go among those I like best, and that like me best--
mechanics, boatmen, farmers,
Or among the savans--or to the soiree--or to the opera,
Or stand a long while looking at the movements of machinery,
Or behold children at their sports,
Or the admirable sight of the perfect old man, or the perfect old
Or the sick in hospitals, or the dead carried to burial, 20
Or my own eyes and figure in the glass;
These, with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring--yet each distinct, and in its place.

To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same;
Every spear of grass--the frames, limbs, organs, of men and women,
and all that concerns them,
All these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles.

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