Metamorphosis of Miracles

I was birthed into this world a miracle.

My mom loved to tell the story of how she and my dad had trouble conceiving and once she bought a pair of snow skis after rounds of Clomid she found out she was pregnant with me. Her discovery was made only after she had submitted herself to x-rays for a minor injury and several doctors advised her to abort her fetus as it would likely have “irreparable disfigurements” from the radiation necessary to assess the damage to her bones. Her decision not to abort solidified her status in the anti-abortion camp, a position she still clings to as righteous and used as teaching tool for me and my two sisters as we grew up. “See, Doctors don’t know everything. You’re a miracle. They happen all the time.” So from the beginning of my life the idea of mystical occurrences and supernatural involvement with humanity and my life in particular was my primary life lesson.

Then, when I was seven my dad was in a small commuter plane crash just outside of our hometown.

He was co-piloting the aircraft when something in the inner workings of the plane iced over preventing proper navigation and the small plane, along with the four men inside plummeted to the earth and broke in half on impact. The story is, my dad was the only one who regained consciousness and managed to crawl his way, with a broken spine, chipped skull, and exploded spleen to a nearby gas station, lay his wallet open on the counter to identify himself, and get the attendant to call my mom who immediately told him to call 911 and get him to the hospital. My dad and all three of the other men survived. Miracle.

My mom’s miracle gave me life. My dad’s miracle gave me faith.

I held tightly to these miracles as proof of a living God specifically invested in my well-being and happiness. God had granted me life, when other mothers made worse decisions. God had spared my dad from death so I could have a father. Right on, God. These are great decisions for me.