Miracles Aren't What You Think They Are

     

I was raised in a tradition of faith that believed God could do miracles. Seemingly impossible, out-of-the-blue, supernatural miracles. 

Do I still believe that God can perform miracles. 

Yes, I suppose I do believe She still can.

My experience, however, has taught me that even miracles happen most often manifest not because God supernaturally intervened. Instead, miracles happen through average human beings doing what they can to help another.

Christmas, among christians, celebrates what we call “The Incarnation.” The belief that God wrapped up in human flesh and entered the limitations of time in order to walk this space between the sod and the sky. Incarnate = in flesh. God took on flesh and experienced the messy, wonderful, haunting, beautiful, broken, and exhilarating experience of being human. 

And God incarnate is given a name…Jesus.

Over and over in the ancient scriptures, Jesus is seen performing miracles. And over and over, these miracles involved people being willing to take action so the miracle could come to pass. 

People filled jars with water at a wedding. 

People distributed the multiplied bread and fish.

People dissembled a roof and lowered their sick friend down.

People moved grave stones and unwrapped grave clothes.

I think what we name as miracles are really a collaboration of divine initiative and human effort. It’s both/and. 

Could God could act alone, intervene in the natural order of things, and perform a miracle?

Yes. 

But does God do it that way very often?  

I don’t think so.

The Incarnation that began with Jesus is still happening. 

God still shows up in the flesh. 

It happens when you and I, with skin on, 

choose to mark ourselves present, 

and refuse to accept the status quo. 

Incarnation is the restlessness that moves us to action. 

Incarnation is the belief that this world can be healed, 

that there can be peace on earth and goodwill toward all. 

Incarnation is that which compels us to accept our part in this drama of life 

and not settle in on the sidelines.

Incarnation is never about spectators.

You want to see God in the flesh?

You want to see miracles happening? 

Look at people who are doing something to welcome the foreigner, 

clothe the naked, 

feed the hungry, 

disassemble systemic racism, 

defend equality. 

Look for the people who listen, 

who look each other in the eye and aren’t afraid, 

who offer an embrace, 

who remember your name. 

Look for the people who don’t give up, 

who build bridges between us, 

who celebrate our shared humanity, 

who pay for more than just their own bills.

Look for people who befriend those who look different than them, 

who are willing to pray for someone of another faith tradition, 

who welcome the most vulnerable among us, 

who refuse to resort to violence to prove their point.

I grow incredibly weary of christians who say they’ve prayed and then they kick back and wait for God to show up in some kind of supernatural appearance. Do these brothers and sisters of mine not realize that we are the answer to those prayers?

You and me.

Our hands, 

our feet, 

our minds, 

our compassion, 

our resources, 

our sweat.

This world will not change simply because some people sat in a room and prayed. 

That is, at best, misguided theology. 

At worst, heresy.

This world will see miracles happen 

when everyday people stand up, 

one by one, 

and do their part to promote peace, justice, equality, and love.

Perhaps you think me a heretic who is diverging from christian orthodoxy.

So be it.

Everyday, I go to work and I rub shoulders with those who are experiencing homelessness. I have the opportunity to serve those who are mentally ill, addicted, abused. I look into the eyes of those desperate for a job, or a home, or a speck of hope. 

Don’t tell me God can perform miracles for these beautiful people and then go on your merry way. Don’t tell me you prayed for them and move along. You know why? Because after those platitudes and prayers, they will be back in library tomorrow still dealing with the same issues of yesterday.

Life change is hard, slow drudgery. It demands people who are willing to get messy and do the hard things, and walk the journey with someone else. Even then, there's no guarantee that life will turn around. There's no magic bullet. But I guarantee there will never be a turn around without people who showed up and were willing to do something. 

That’s incarnation.

Miracles happen because the divine ache in us propels us to action. Miracles happen when we have the divine eyesight to see the beauty of being human and are moved to come closer, not push further away.

Everyday, I wake up to headlines that break my heart. Yesterday’s included five people being stabbed in the New York home of a rabbi during a Chanukah celebration. 

You want a miracle through this this tragedy?

Go ahead and pray. And then refuse to accept hateful speech or racist thinking in your future conversations. Call a Jewish friend and say you are sorry that this continues to happen. Don't have a Jewish friend? Then humbly go make one. Make a monetary contribution to a Jewish organization. Learn about Chanukah and light a menorah.

It may not seem like much, but if you and I do just a little than the collective picture changes. And when the collective picture changes, we see miracles have happened.

In this season of Christmas, when we celebrate the Incarnation in Bethlehem, 

may we not forget that incarnation is still possible. 

God can still show up and work miracles.

She just does it, most often, through me and you.

Show up.

Be present.

Center yourself through prayer.

Have courage.

Do your part.

Refuse to sit on the sidelines.

Then maybe, we will see the miracles for which we have so long prayed and hoped.

Dyslexia and Ash Wednesday

My daughter has a reading disability, most likely dyslexia. 

It’s a recent diagnosis, but I’ve known something was amiss for years.

My older two children took to decoding and reading like a fish takes to water, but not M. She was like a fish that landed in a tree.

From the beginning, she struggled to grasp and memorize the letter sounds. The idea of putting sounds together to make a complete word took many, many, many months to take hold. Even then, it was slow. The progress was always slow. 

We worked twice as hard for twice as long to make less headway than expected. 

For a time, I thought it was just M taking her time like she does with so much of life. I lovingly refer to her as my “enjoy the journey” child because, to her, deadlines are merely suggestions.

As progress continued to be slow and arduous, I realized there more going on than a late reader waiting for the moment to bloom. Instead, I came to understand her reluctance and hesitancy toward reading was more complex and complicated.

I won’t bore you with the details of it all, but the last 2.5 years have been very difficult for me. As a home educating mother with a struggling reader, I have constantly battled the thinking that I wasn’t good enough, prepared enough, capable enough. I waged war in mind to overcome the idea that I have somehow failed my child.

When a parent is trying to unlock a child’s struggle, failure is a familiar feeling.

I have spent countless hours working one on one with M. We’ve made flashcards and worn them out until the edges were bent. I’ve done armchair research on reading disabilities, then worked to employ tools from others’ toolboxes. I’ve changed up my teaching style, incorporated various learning styles. We’ve used games, dice, printed materials, and computer games. We've repeated and repeated and repeated spelling words until she can correctly write “friend” and “people” without fail. I’ve increased the amount of time I read aloud to her, which has become every night - no matter how tired I am.

I am so tired.

Parenting a child with a disability or chronic illness is accompanied by a tremendous emotional toll.

I carried the weight of M’s struggle with me at all times. It would surface during predictable situations like during a reading lesson when I would take a deep breath and find words of affirmation instead of frustration. 

The weight would also surface in unpredictable moments like at my work Christmas party. Amidst the gaiety of a party game that requires speed and reading, the unexpected question sprung to mind of whether M will ever feel comfortable with this kind of game because it requires rapid reading skills.  Those thoughts sobered me and delivered a familiar internal blow while I affix an external smile hoping not to give anything away.

Add into the mix the roller coaster of a life we lived the last few years complete with ministry burnout, the grief of losing a parent, and a major move away from all that is familiar. It flurries into a perfect storm of emotional tyranny usurping any sense of order, control, or peace I once perceived I possessed. Suffice to say, it’s been a year…or three.

Life has dealt some difficult blows, but I’ve done what we all hope to do.

I try to do my best with the tools I’ve got.

And maybe, on a good day, I extend myself a little grace.

Long story short, since moving to Sioux Falls, we’ve been able to connect with some resources that can aid in the effort to help M build confidence and unlock some mysteries still remaining for her in reading.

In the midst of securing evaluations, assessments, and intervention I have also battled fear.

I’ve been afraid of judgment - judgment of my parenting skills, of my teaching skills, or both. I’ve been afraid that I’ve not done enough and that I’ve ruined my child forever. I’ve been afraid that our ability to home educate would be disrupted. I’ve been afraid that fellow homeschoolers will condemn our decision to accept help from the school district. 

Whether you can relate to these fears or not, can you admit we all experience fear. Can we also acknowledge that fear is not usually rational, and fears often augment and distort in nonsensical ways that create all kinds of crazy in the head. Am I right?

Humans possess an immeasurable capacity to give in to fear that will paralyze us and prevent us from pursuing the very things that could help us. Yet, humanity also possesses an immeasurable capacity to stare fear down and choose to move forward trusting that an unknown process might yield positive results. 

The gift is in the choosing. 

You and I get to wake up everyday and decide which immeasurable capacity will win out - fear or trust. 

In what seems to be unrelated news, today is Ash Wednesday. The first day in the season of Lent. A time when followers of Jesus prepare for Easter by recognizing their own humanity. Today, millions of people worldwide received the sign of the cross on their forehead, formed with a finger dipped in ash. A black cross serving as a reminder that we are limited creatures - mortal, fallible, finite. A black cross that reminds us that death is part of life, but death can also make way for hope and rebirth. 

A black, ash cross is a visible symbol that surrender can give birth to new hope.

Today, M started dual enrollment as a homeschool student and a student at a local elementary school. She will spend two hours Monday through Friday in class receiving some specialized services with the goal of improving her reading abilities.

I awoke today, Ash Wednesday, and smiled as I considered the apropos timing of this journey. On a day when ashes remind us of our own limitations and dependence, I will release my child into the capable care of others. 

On a day when we embrace the confines that restrict us, I will enlarge my circle by partnering with those who have the training and aptitude for reading interventions. 

On a day when death looms large but makes way for life, I will lay my own fears to rest and allow certain ill-held dreams to die so that hope is offered to a 10 year old girl who has struggled to read.

Death to life. 

Limits transformed to abundance. 

The finite making way for the infinite.

All on a Wednesday filled with ashes.

I stroked M’s arm as I gently woke her this morning. This morning that was a beginning in so many ways. This beginning that will unfold one step at a time. This step that has been hard fought.

As I styled her hair and presented her breakfast, I chose to embrace my capacity to trust it will all be ok. Honestly, that’s easier to believe when you’ve met the teachers who will be working with your child. It’s easier to believe when you’ve been warmed by their welcome and calmed by the intentional ways they’ve already prepared to receive your child. It’s easier to believe when you’re told that the class can’t wait to meet their new friend and you know it’s true because that broad smile on the face of “Mrs. S” doesn’t lie. She means every word. 

Sometimes, it’s hard to trust that others will fight as hard for your child as you will. 

Sometimes fighting for your child means entrusting them into the care of those you have to trust will know what’s best when all you’ve been doing is second guessing yourself. 

Sometimes, you hug your child and wish her well on her very first day in a school classroom, and believe it will all be ok, because renewed hope often comes from surrendering to our own limits.

And sometimes, 

in the quiet moments after your goodbye, 

when you’re reminding yourself that Ash Wednesdays lead to Easters, 

your husband texts you a picture. 

And in that photograph your child is standing with her new teacher, 

in her new school, 

and they’re both smiling

and that teacher is donning none other than, 

you guessed it, 

a black, ash cross on her forehead.

All on a Wednesday filled with ashes and hope.

In that kind of moment, surrender is sweet and no diagnosis feels final or fatal.