Little Miracles
“How do I talk to myself on a daily basis? Most of that runs on default. It’s the outside voice that we believe is the inside voice. We’ve been listening to it for so long that we think it’s our own. But beneath that, we find radical self love: our inherent sense of enoughness. That can’t be externally changed. The same thing that decided that there should be daisies and butterflies and the River Nile and sunrises also decided that there should be a me, there should be a you, and that’s divine. The most stunning sunset I’ve ever seen is made of the same material reality as my own beingness. That’s miraculous.”
--Sonya Renee Taylor, WE CAN DO HARD THINGS
Over the holidays, my boys and I discovered a true treat of a film when we watched THE BEST CHRISTMAS PAGEANT EVER. Going into it, I was skeptical, so I mentally prepared myself: Christmas movies are always cheesy, but that’s also why I love them. They’re never exactly realistic and always require a certain suspension of disbelief so you can be fully immersed in their magic and fully absorb their meaning. It’s sort of like having a blind--but at the same time, an intrinsically knowing--faith in a story, in a path that wants to take us somewhere beautiful and give us something we inherently need. These stories are all alike, with similar plotlines, characters, settings, and pitfalls, which can be somewhat ridiculous at their outset and easy to dismiss because they’re about the improbable, the impossible. But in fact, these stories are baked into our bones; they’re a central part of the human arc of experience. Because at their core, they’re about hope. They’re about the human quest to fulfill the deep human need for miracles.
Here's what Google AI says about miracles:
A miracle is an event that is considered to be extraordinary, inexplicable, and beyond the scope of natural laws. Miracles are often attributed to a supernatural cause, such as a divine power.
Definition
A miracle is an event that is considered to be too good to be true
A miracle is an event that is considered to be outside of nature
A miracle is an event that is considered to be a sign of the supernatural
Examples
The widow's oil overflowing
The plagues besieging Pharaoh
Lazarus's resuscitation
The beggar's healing
Jesus multiplying loaves
Jesus changing water into wine
Jesus healing a large extent of diseased tissue with a draught of water
Significance
The significance of a miracle is often held to be the reality that it points to, such as the presence of a divine power
Miracles are sometimes called signs, which means they indicate something beyond themselves
"Miracle" in other languages translates to:
Spanish: "milagro"
French: "miracle"
German: "Wunder"
Italian: "miracolo"
Portuguese: "milagre"
Chinese: "奇迹" (qíjī)
Japanese: "奇跡" (kiseki)
Russian: "чудо" (chudo)
Korean: "기적" (gijŏk)
Miracles are often inexplicable and mend the impossible. In their most basic, recognizable, and relatable form, which is also perhaps their most beautiful, miracles take the form of simply making everything OK. They are actually, and quite characteristically, valiant acts of humankind.
The Catholic Faith believes in four kinds of miracles: Healing Miracles: curing of physical impairments and illnesses, Exorcisms: casting out demons and unclean spirits, Nature Miracles: calming storms and feeding multitudes, and Restoration Miracles: raising the dead and restoring to life. I believe each of these types of miracles can also be metaphorical and exist within us all, as part of the journey of life toward self-actualization, a collaboration between spirituality, psychology, and metaphysics. Catholic Identity states that, “Miracles can and still do happen today, but we need to proceed with caution when placing our belief in them. Miracles are seen as manifestations of God's power that go beyond natural causes. They suspend for a moment the effect of physical laws; however, they do not revoke them.” Miracles are a form of pattern interrupt…of things going differently than they are predetermined to…a blip, an outlier, an anomaly in nature, cognitive dissonance that doesn’t make linear sense. The properties that make them unnatural are what make them sublime. And yet, they are elemental to human existence.
But this blog post is not meant to be a religious piece. While we send our boys to Catholic school and cherish those sacred teachings, I am no expert on Catholicism or religious ideology, nor would I want such a theme to alienate readers who aren’t Catholic. More aptly, this blog post is meant to tell a story about the miracles that make up the transcendent moments of our lives, and how these universally relevant acts are understood and explained by our institutions.
In other cultures, "miracles" are often understood as extraordinary events attributed to supernatural powers, with variations depending on the specific religion or belief system, but generally involving acts of healing, divine intervention, or feats beyond normal human capabilities, often associated with holy figures or spiritual practices; examples include:
· Hinduism:
Miracles are often linked to the mystical powers of ascetics and yogis, with accounts of divine avatars performing extraordinary acts; the Upanishads emphasize the "miracle" of spiritual enlightenment as the highest goal.
· Buddhism:
While Buddha himself downplayed miracles, later Buddhist traditions include stories of miraculous events associated with his life and that of enlightened saints, often seen as symbolic teachings rather than literal occurrences.
· Daoism:
Chinese folk religion heavily influenced by Daoism features a rich tapestry of miracles connected to practices like alchemy, magic, and the quest for immortality, often involving interaction with cosmic forces.
· Islam:
While the Quran emphasizes the miraculous nature of its revelation, Islamic theology generally views miracles as primarily occurring through the Prophet Muhammad, with later Sufi traditions incorporating stories of wonder-working saints.
· Ancient Greece and Rome:
The concept of "miracle" was often understood as a "wonder" or an astonishing event that inspired awe, with the focus more on the reaction of observers than on a divine intervention.
How we will define miracle here is as a component of spiritual enlightenment that elicits wonder; an astonishing event that inspires awe, with the focus more on the experience of those people performing the miracle and touched by the miracle, rather than on divine intervention or symbolic teachings, and which requires the suspension of the laws of nature to make possible.
What that looks like: Walking away from someone who has hurt you, instead of lashing out or spreading destructive gossip around town. It’s in our nature to defend ourselves, to fight back. We’re afraid of getting even more hurt if we don’t. We’re afraid the other person is going to get the jump on us by controlling the narrative and spreading the gossip first. But what if they don’t? Or what if they do, and it just doesn’t matter? I recently read a quote that said “You don’t have to tell your side of the story, because time will.” You keep doing YOU. Your character, your actions, you heart will do all the talking. Plus, why waste any time not living into the beauty of your soul’s calling to your life’s purpose? Everything else is just noise.
What it also looks like: holding the yoga pose, breathing through it, and being held by God when your children are fighting. It’s loud. You want to scream. Can you just walk away?
What it also looks like: supporting someone through a hard time of incalculable impact by moving Heaven and Earth to be with them, and their family, and their inexplicable needs. You may not know what the Hell you’re doing or what the Hell is going on, but you keep going, you keep trusting the love you have in your heart for your friends. You make it easy, and okay, and not awkward for them as much as possible, because that’s how you help them heal.
What it looks like daily: Smiling at someone or saying a kind word, even if they’ve been rude or even cruel to you. It’s not hard, and it actually takes me more energy not to do it. Just breeze on in there and be your bad ass kind, wonderful self and don’t make more waves…don’t make it worse. As Father Matthew said in his sermon for the SJV 8th Grade pinning ceremony, what can you do to make your community a little sweeter? It’s not by wreaking havoc to get even.
What it looks like with our parents: Receive them for who they are and move past the mistakes they’ve made. Life is short, and they won’t be around forever. Draw boundaries where you need and walk away when you have to, but also, try empathy. Try imagining their life, their perspectives, their traumas, their experience. To understand them is to understand yourself.
What it looks like with friends: Hold space for them. You aren’t going to agree on everything. Look at the bigger picture of the journey of the relationship. If you have truly been there for them and they have truly been there for you, through each of your mistakes and dark moments, not just the fun and joy, but all of it, and you are committed to each other, take a breath. Take a pause. Sometimes friendships are only for a chapter or a season, not forever. Honor those friends and that time. Other friends are for life, and it’s a little miracle when you show your true cards, dig deeper, and stay together. There’s no greater feeling than when someone holds space for me. As my friend Amy said, “True friends will always work things out.”
What it looks like in community: Everyone has a place and a voice and is honored and respected. Make space at the table. The best idea wins. Just be happy the project is getting done, care less about your role in it or your accolades for it. Sometimes, we need to strive to be seen and heard—I don’t want to discount the people in the shadows who can be steamrolled over. And sometimes, it’s enough just to know it’s happening. “The people who mind don’t matter, and the people who matter don’t mind.” And the people who matter know the truth. And sometimes, grace and mercy roll around and create a little miracle enacted by a human person who makes it right, and they can make it right in their own beautiful, divine way that may touch you deeply. Time will tell, and you have to be patient. The arc of the journey is the miracle of the experience. Hold. The. Yoga Pose. Be Still and Be Held by God.
I actually think the existence and proliferation of civilization hinges on these little miracles….in relationships, organizations, communities, projects, and more. Such little miracles found in timing, placement, limitations, additions, and even luck make things possible. In particular, the magic of people that’s found in the free will of human choice is found in the magic of their heroic human acts that are enabled and driven by love.
“Love, love is a verb. Love is a doing word.” –From “Teardrop” by Massive Attack
Imagine loving so much, loving unconditionally and infinitely, like a mother. That kind of love, in and of itself, is a little miracle. That kind of love nurtures our universe in infinite and profound ways, and that kind of love is the reason why we’re here. That love made “here” possible. It is the greatest of all the Bible’s teachings. It is the abiding force in our journey across this Earth. The ability of a person to dig deep is the secret to the survival of humankind.
That kind of love is deeply intertwined with faith, like the strands of a DNA double helix. The yin and yang. One cannot exist without the other, because our faith in what, how, and why we love makes us capable of heroic, impossible things. We can get through being hurt, we can get through the pain, we can get through conflict, disagreements, setbacks, losses, scorn, shame, ostracism, missed expectations, and even trauma if we lean into that love.
What I discovered is that this love begins with our love and our trust in ourselves. This love is a safe space within each of us where we can rest when we’re weary and be held by God.
I did not have this safe space inside myself, or maybe I did, and I lost it. What I will say is that it was never whole. I’ve spent part of my life being groundless, floating, searching for shore. And so much of it being incredibly driven and assured about what I wanted and what I could do. When that part of me was cut off, I was truly, truly lost. I’ve been naïve and warm and welcoming to everyone at the outset. The Southern way? Stupidity? I’ve tried to fit the mold—but then I’ve also rebelled against the mold and somehow always find myself at the center of disdain when expectations aren’t met, because I’ve let people down. They counted on me to be this certain person, because maybe I was for a while, and then I realized who I really was, and I let them down. Or I realized who they really were, that we weren’t a fit. And I let them down.
It is an automatic trait for me to assimilate, because I’ve cared so much about being liked and wanting to people please. In some places, it can feel like your friends define you, the key to belonging, even in adulthood. I’ve cared way too much. I’ve tried to be liked by everyone, which is impossible. A wise friend said, “Everyone’s got a one-star review.” Including me. Especially me. For some. I’m a trigger. For some. I know how to be quiet when it’s important, but why should I be quiet when I’m doing awesome things, or I’m trying to find the truth, or true friends?
I’ve taken cruelty deeply and personally. I’ve put myself in the position to be scorned. There’s a quote from the animated film THE KING that goes “A miracle to some is a threat to others.” As in life. The duality of nature. We cannot appease everyone and be everything, so it’s up to us to respectfully walk away from what’s not ours so we can focus on the things that matter most.
I really need to not let down my children, my husband, my best friends, my closest family, and myself. And finding that safety inside is the key to opening up all of it. That’s one reason why I did Dry April: to seek myself, and meet myself with clarity and strength and knowing—a knowing so deep and steadfast that it wouldn’t waiver in the face of adversity. My challenge is to not dissociate from my body in hard times, but to create a sacred space where I can remain.
Which brings us back to the film THE BEST CHRISTMAS PAGEANT EVER.
I highly recommend this film about a small-town church putting on a Christmas pageant and the woman (played by actress Judy Grier, amazing) who wrangles a family of the naughtiest kids in town to be in it. My boys loved it. I was moved to tears. We watched it three times last Christmas season. Of its many heart-warming themes, which absolutely include the real reason for the season—love, kindness, forgiveness, mercy…and of course, miracles—the film focuses on The Virgin Mary’s love for her child and her fear and anxiety of the unknown in a world that had scorned, shamed her, and cast her out, and her perseverance to birth and care for her baby anyway in the most rustic and desolate of conditions. It was probably pretty cold in that stable. The hay in that manger was coarse. The smell of the animals would have made a pregnant woman unceasingly nauseous. And you can imagine it was pretty dirty. But she did it anyway.
Mary, the Mother. She was strong. She pushed through it. She wasn’t filled with joy or confidence or even peace. She was alienated. She was scared. She was exhausted and she was in pain. She and Joseph were isolated and alone. But she did it anyway.
Mary had faith. Of course, you could argue that with the baby coming, she had no choice. She was in labor; there was nothing she could do but give birth. The path was laid out for her. But after Jesus was born and they were being hunted by King Herod, she didn’t abandon her son, but pulled him in even closer. For him, and through him, and with her faith in God—and because of her faith, which was a source of her connection to herself and her sense of inner knowing—she fought to survive. Even though Mary was scorned, shamed, and turned away…rejected, shunned, hated…it didn’t stop her from having that baby. She was going to have that baby no matter where, no matter what. The fact that she endured makes what she did remarkable. The miracle wasn’t only in that Jesus was the son of God, birthed by immaculate conception, but also in what Mary did. Her love for her unborn child was, in large part, the core of her miracle.
“When we love, we always strive to become better than we are. When we strive to become better than we are, everything around us becomes better too.” --From THE ALCHEMIST by Paulo Coelho
I fully believed it was an act of love for my husband Ben, my son Walker, and me (and Reeves, six months in utero) to choose to move to Wisconsin in 2016. After all, this is where Ben grew up, and every time we visited, there were elaborate dinners with family and friends in their gorgeous historic homes, or endless fun of campfires and lake life “Up North.” It seemed like a strong, tight knit community, and most especially, I absolutely adored Ben’s Dad Jim. There was so much gentleness and kindness about him, and Firework Jim, also known as J.I.M., was legendary for his love of children and the fun he brought to every family gathering. I knew he would be a wonderful grandfather to our children. Walker was a toddler, and Reeves was as yet unborn, and there was the possibility of a third child that only existed as a dream at that point, a future that seemed solidified by a Janesville move, where Ben’s office would be five minutes away and he wouldn’t be traveling internationally often like he did for his job in Austin. What’s more, with the cost of living in Janesville being largely preferable to Austin, we could afford one of those historic Victorians.
Indeed, our first home here cost significantly less than the sale price of our Austin cottage. All the ducks were in a row: a wide welcoming network of family and friends, including awesome grandparents for our children—heck, MANY family members for our children—within a five block radius; a better work-life balance for Ben at his family company to carry on his family legacy, where he would be surrounded by people he loves, and a house beyond our wildest dreams that we could never own in the big city. Endless summers of perfect weather where you could spend all day outside, in sharp contrast to the oppressive 100 degree plus Texas heat. A distant cousin who lived up the street with an important job in Washington, something that my own humble Texas family never believed we’d live to see. It seemed like literally anything was possible in Janesville, but most especially, a happy life.
So we made the pilgrimage across the country, from a aa state that bordered Mexico to one that bordered Canada. At age 36, I was a fully formed human, forming another human. I’ve always been creative and resourceful, so it didn’t feel like an insurmountable task to leave my friends, family, professional network, and way of life—not to mention, change climates from one extreme to another, or to move from a culturally diverse metropolitan area to a “big” small town. I’d lived in big cities my entire life – San Antonio, Houston, London, Austin, Los Angeles—but surely things wouldn’t be so hard to navigate. Surely, I thought, how it’s done in Texas wasn’t so different than the Midwest. Surely, our huge Irish family, and all the people we were introduced to, would guide us on the way, help us through any hard times if things turned around.
But things are different here than they are in Texas.
Things aren’t the same in the big city as they are in the big small town.
Having only one crappy movie theater was brutal. (It’s now nicer).
Lark wasn’t even open yet downtown.
The only thing for kids was story time at the library. But that’s during the baby’s morning nap.
Those family dinners and parties don’t happen every day, and no one is going to babysit. You’re on your own, kid. Emergencies only. I’m sorry you haven’t showered in days.
Madison is only 45 minutes away! So close! But impossible with a baby and a toddler in zero degrees.
Snacks, nursing, diapers, potty, snacks, naps, directions, parking, snacks, repairs, laundry, night wakings. No sleep.
Southern hospitality is a real thing. In the Midwest, they sniff you out. For years.
And in 66 degrees and sunny in April, the best days in Wisconsin, I was COLD.
First world problems. Added up though, the story we lived was far different than what we imagined. It was going to be a long, arduous journey to make this place home.
And then our elder statesman J.I.M. died.
The truth was, he was much sicker than we’d understood, and it became clear as soon as we got here, that support would be much more needed than given. That this time of moving to a new place with a new life should have been so happy and full of wonder and discovery, but it was immeasurably sad. It broke my heart. I think of what my state of anxiety and post-partum depression and lack of groundedness did to my kids—to little Walker, not wanting to sleep in his new bedroom or go to his new pre-school; to Reeves, who I nursed through our defining communal grief, who at only five weeks old was in the room when Jim died, having just met his grandfather on the last day of his existence.
One day, when Reeves is old enough to comprehend the beauty and significance without being paralyzed by the sadness, we’ll tell him of this. That the one photograph we have of him with his grandfather is from this day. Of the two of them, as Jim took his last breaths, holding hands.
Everything from that moment, for years to come, would be an aftershock from the gaping hole that was created. From the sadness and anger surrounding it, from the trauma this huge loss left. In my vulnerability as a new mother, new to town, new to the family system, I was an odd duck out, the new kid on the block who had needs that were a nuisance to others with competing priorities. There were roles to fill in the family, in the company, in the neighborhood, and in the community at large, and those roles were bigger than me or our children and took over our lives. More and more and more was asked and pushed in. I don’t blame anyone. Everyone was in a dark, dark state of mourning. They were utterly overwhelmed, as were we all.
There was nothing and no one who could replace Jim, like the heart cut out of the body of our lives, the beat gone, the source gone, the meaning dashed into the night. The sky is permanently cracked in the place where he ascended from Earth. It was an impossible situation. I think of him all the time and what life would be like if he were still here.
There were so many other bad omens of the struggle we’d face in our first years in Janesville: the snow in April in the very first week, after coming from 80 degrees in Austin, sweet Uncle Johnnie’s funeral on the day we moved in to our new house, the passing of Patrick Ryan, the CEO of Ryan Inc. who was to be Ben’s mentor. That November, it was the election to President of a man who committed sexual assault and untold business crimes. Then there was an un-sanctioned protest the following January in Jefferson Park where our children played, which was met by the opposition, who were brandishing AR-15s. Things were also not as stable as we thought with family and friends we’d hoped to be close to. They were dealing with their own deep struggles and issues, and these were all placed at our feet. Life hit. Hard.
It was a seismic shift, the crumbling of the ground beneath us, a perpetual earthquake, the tectonic plates creating new mountains we had to climb with our bruised and bloody hands.
A new city, a new house a new life. A new baby!
And yet, we were surrounded by tears.
It was a time of making a new life in a new home for a young marriage and tiny children, who brought so much joy. And it was a time of instability, turmoil, and grief. The world on its head.
And then it was f*cking winter.
“Grief is a ghost that visits without warning. It comes in the night and rips you from your sleep. It fills your chest with shards of glass. It interrupts you mid laugh when you’re at a party, chastising you that, just for a moment, you’ve forgotten. It haunts you until it becomes a part of you, shadowing you breath for breath.” --Suleika Jaouad, from BETWEEN TWO KINGDOMS
In our grief, we became afraid of one another; isolated, alienated, and scared. There were too many things compounding to deplete us, trying to wring us into nothing. And then there was the anger, directed at the most vulnerable. The venomous, cruelly slanted gossip, wildly taken out of context or completely untrue. The misunderstandings, the misinterpretations, the invalidations and this discounting of what felt true. The bad advice born of ignorance, and of needing someone to blame. And the ways things were always done, that ended up doing harm instead of good. It is hard to understand something you’ve never encountered, and that went all ways. It is hard to understand something you’ve never encountered, and that went all ways. And in the meanwhile, every single person just doing what they know to live. Just to survive.
“I sat with my anger long enough until she told me her real name was grief.” --C.S. Lewis
It was too many things all at one time. I couldn’t recover. I couldn’t cope. We needed a little miracle. We needed a series of little miracles.
I would put my crash landing in Janesville in the category of one of the hardest things that’s ever happened to me. The body carried the score. All the changes at once were an unending and relentless shock, right up there with the sudden death of my favorite Uncle Ronnie when I was seven and he was 38, and event which tsunami’d through our family and changed the man my father became. It significantly altered my childhood. It changed my parents’ marriage. It threw a shadow over my father’s promising career and his—and my—entire life. My strongest memories from that time, some of my only memories from that time, are riding in the backseat of the car to the funeral while my Dad drove, me crying strong but quiet tears. Him reaching his arm over the seat to hand me a tissue. Him picking me up at dance class every Tuesday and going to the cemetery and kneeling, crying strong but quiet tears at the grave. Me watching silently, the wind blowing my hair across my face as I took in the lonely landscape. Gravestones, flowers, trees. My father on his knees. Me never knowing what to say, just listening.
If only to reach back into those moments and touch that fragility.
Joan Didion wrote about the year of magical thinking, but she knew well, and I know now, that it was years. And those years were not without the kindness of neighbors, family, friends, and strangers. The paradox is that there was much love, joy, and moments with our children that were special, and many moments of making this home that were monumental. We love our community. It’s a place where, when you find your niche—the right places, and the right people, and the right causes to support—you get back in spades. I’ve found friends, community, and connections everywhere I’ve lived, but I’ve never experienced anything like this current zeitgeist, this movement, this momentum in Janesville. This fire.
We were never nothing. We were always, and ever meant to be, beautifully broken, but beautifully whole.
But this is 2025, and it did take me years to get here. First, I had to dig deep to redefine and redesign my existence by performing a paradigm shift of miraculous proportions.
“Gazing up at the Milky Way, I remember when all I wanted is what I have in this moment. Sitting on the kitchen floor of my old apartment, sicker than I'd ever felt, my heart fractured into 10,000 tiny pieces, I needed to believe that there was a truer, more expressive and fulfilling version of my life out there. I had no interest in existing as a martyr, forever defined by the worst things that had happened to me. I need to believe that when your life has become a cage, you can loosen the bars and reclaim your freedom. I told myself again and again until I believe my own words: it is possible for me to alter the course of my becoming.” --Suleika Jaouad, BETWEEN TWO KINGDOMS
Acrobatics to weave chaos into gold. After all, I had done this before. And I would continue to do this, multiple times: During study abroad in London where I was followed by my abusive boyfriend, which cast a shadow over the entire experience; when I got into law school at the University of Texas but realized I didn’t want to be—that I couldn’t be—a lawyer; in Los Angeles with its rollercoaster life; in moving back to Texas after leaving my dream of film production to work at “real jobs” in advertising, software consulting, followed by fundraising. When I lost the babies. When I birthed my first, second, and third. As a teacher in our “one room schoolhouse” during Covid. Upon the deaths of each of my grandparents, the pillars who truly helped raise me. When my father had another stroke and would never walk again. When I couldn’t find friends who really “got me.” Then when I found them, for life. And continue to.
I have recreated myself, readjusted my focus, reshuffled my priorities to fit the reality of my situation to what would allow me to survive and thrive. It is a creative act every single time.
In her memoir Inheritance: A Memoir of Genealogy, Paternity, and Love, author Dani Shapiro discusses the Three Great Spiritual Questions:
1. Who Am I?
2. Why Am I Here?
3. How Shall I Live?
I have a weird relationship with achievement that I now realize is also deeply integrated with problem solving and driving to a solution, which can be incredibly effective, but also detrimental, especially when it concerns how much it’s integrated with my self worth, identity, and purpose. Ambiguity and limbo can be hard places for me, because they feel out of control and have the potential to fail. While I’m a creative person and enjoy culling order out of chaos (my specialty, I think), not having a defined next step or direction can be hard. I’m deeply attached to my work, and to its outcome. I’m sure it’s all related to the fact that I will always be that little girl trying to keep my father happy and my family together by coming home with stellar grades, fast miles, and leadership roles. I couldn’t control the mood my father was in every night, the regret that seeped through, the sadness underneath the anger, mixed with the pain. But I could control staying up until 3 AM to study for tests and drive to perfection on school projects. I could push myself harder than the other girls on those hills until I couldn’t breathe. I could be President of two clubs my senior year, even though I ran varsity, took all AP classes, and applied to ten colleges and numerous scholarships, and I could do all of this while keeping our family afloat by, among other things, ironing my Dad’s shirts and doing the entire family’s laundry. I would lose boyfriends because of this focus, and I’d miss many, many parties. On the surface, it made everything seem OK. And as a teenager, I did not know any different.
Who Am I. Why Am I Here. How Shall I Live.
I knew what to do.
This philosophy continued into my thirties, with a few blips, of course, as I experimented with life and friends and jobs and school and cities. Then we got married. Then we had Walker. And things changed. But they really changed when I let Austin for Janesville, leaving the big city career network for the big small town. And then they really, really changed the summer when I was pregnant with Jackson and my blood pressure was so low that I was blacking out, and Reeves was sick all summer with pneumonia and hand foot mouth, so he and Walker were home, together, with me, sick as a dog. I realized I did love being home with them, actually. Stopping everything else. Just enjoying us. And then things really, really, really changed when Jackson was born. He didn’t sleep. I didn’t sleep. But Walker and Reeves still wanted their mother.
And then it was f*cking Covid.
Even through that, I continued to find my place. I actually enjoyed the simplicity of Covid in many ways in being with and teaching my kids. It was a miracle that Covid hit and we decided not to sell our Janesville house, and to sell our Madison house, and dig in here. I became more active in the community, and just when I was hitting my stride, some invasive forces took the ground from under my feet, and my stride was swept away.
Who Am I. Why Am I Here. How Shall I Live.
I had tried so hard to make three kids and Janesville and new things work. I had tried, and I had failed, and I was groundless, purposeless, aimless. I did not know what to do, because once again, I could not do.
What could I do if I could not do? If my hands were tied, because my brain and my body were tired and chained. If I could not work, if I could not write, if I could not fight, if I could not achieve, if I could not even create.
But as I struggled for what seemed like endless dark days, my ability to trust my environment gone and my hopes at creating something beautiful of my own dashed, I discovered that I did know what to do. It was the driving force that has always been with me and that is the core of who I am. It is the fire behind my capabilities and herculean feats. It is the why behind every big move, big project, and crazy decision. I can love people. I can love places. I can love a cause, a project, a purpose, and most especially an idea. I can love the work and the nurturing to do it.
“’You have to shift from the gloom and doom and focus instead on what you love,’ she told me before bed. ‘That’s all you can do in the face of these things. Love the people around you. Love the life you have. I can’t think of a more powerful response to life’s sorrows than loving.’”
--Suleika Jaouad, BETWEEN TWO KINGDOMS
I could love.
I could love.
Discovering that If I cannot do—the driving force of my entire life—that I can love—was a life-changing paradigm shift and survival tool, nothing short of a little miracle for my mind and body.
It was Mary, the Mother. She was with me. Performing a little miracle within me.
Mary, The Mother. The lesson, the role.
Mary’s example is ubiquitous for mothers everywhere, not just mothers of children, but for people who mother in other ways— nieces and nephews, friends, family, community. A project, a talent, a neighbor, a town. There’s nothing more beautiful than this this nurturing; there’s nothing more beautiful than helping someone else. Than loving others. Than authentically and sincerely loving yourself. I think we were put on this earth to help each other, not just help ourselves.
When we’re overwhelmed by life, it’s impossible to have empathy for others. When people are hurt or angry, they look for someone to blame, just as much as they look for belonging and community. A common enemy brings people together, and it bonds them through hate and fear.
But what if we held ourselves, as God holds us, through love? What if, in spite of our differences and our and our difficulties and our disagreements, we are bonded by love?
How can we best love our family and friends, our colleagues and our community? But before we can do that, how can we best love ourselves?
But it wasn’t one before the other for me; as life always is, it was a circle, each part inspired by and growing from the other. I was able to finally love myself because I realized I was loved, and that I did love. That I had the ability to grow things, and to nurture, and that it was always there, the whole time, no matter who tried to tell me it wasn’t. No matter who tried to tell me that I wasn’t. That I Was Not Me. When we’re struggling, the narrative that we are destructive…is destructive. It’s not true. And it’s not what we need for true healing.
There were times that forces of the universe tried to take away my strength, but my strength was always there, sourced from my ability to mother, even before I had children—my community, my family, my friends, my projects, my work, my vision, my enduring beliefs about life. It was there. And maybe that’s what scared them. Something new. Something strong. Something different. People will devalue what they don’t understand, especially if they are overcome with grief, stress, and change. My challenge—my journey—would be learning to mother myself through this. That was what I now know this entire experience was about: learning to stand on my own, to be connected to and nurture myself—and to build infallible strength to take care of my children in the face of intense adversity.
“I hear about how peripheral vision is best for looking into the far distance—sometimes when you look at an object directly it can disappear; and about why the stars appear to twinkle—because of atmospheric turbulence around the earth disturbing the travelling light. The light struggling to reach us is what makes it especially beautiful.” --Amy Liptrot, THE OUTRUN
I had to become my own best friend. I had to define my own worth. To be confident in my place, and my purpose. What a feat for someone recovering from distorted self-worth and self-loathing.
Nurturing myself is also the best way to nurture my children, and they are absolutely everything to me. But the greatest beauty of this slowing down in order to figure out how to best take are of myself through the chaos was seeing—truly seeing—parsing out priorities. And seeing.
When you realize how much your own children love you, it will take your breath away. It is an absolute miracle. The most beautiful gift from God.
It’s a little miracle when you begin to see yourself as your sons do, as a protector, as a healer, as a leader, as the strong and loving woman who shines in the sun and lassos the moon and inspires her every creative breath to life. As a mother who nurtures them, and so much else. Who nurtures and is connected to herself. A beloved human being.
Even in my loneliest times when I felt abandoned by those who were supposed to love and support me, I was never alone. I was loved by my miraculous boys. I was in pain, and of pain. Desolate, and in desperation. Broken, and beaten down. Then, finally still. And held by God.
And still, after all of it, full of love.
“Mommy, Jesus loved people who hated him!” –Jackson James Ryan
I honestly didn’t know if such healing was possible, but I had faith, because I had love. And experiencing all the little joys and the small beauties that began to reveal themselves and give me love in return is when I realized that life is full of little miracles.
If we hadn’t moved to Janesville in April, we wouldn’t have been here when Jim died in August, because things happened so fast, and we wouldn’t have been able to get here in time from Texas. At five weeks old, Reeves wouldn’t have met his Grandpa in the room.
If Jackson wasn’t so spirited in the womb, he might not be here. At 32 weeks in utero, his heartrate dropped dangerously, and I was rushed to the hospital with the amazing Dr. Kristin Miller following in her car right behind. Another little miracle, that my friend Kristin was also my trusted doctor and could clear her schedule, that she was there for me. I’m not sure this would have happened in the big city. We were prepared for emergency cesarean. My babies were born healthy and big, he would be fine. We would be fine. He would be smaller and he would be in the NICU but we were going to make it. He would be fine. We would be fine. He was measuring approximately 4 pounds 10 ounces; this would work. Ben arrived to the hospital. I was in labor and delivery, in a gown. We were ready to go. Then Jackson’s heartrate improved.
Jackson wasn’t another miscarriage like the pregnancies before his brothers.
Jackson remained active in the womb, kicking and churning and turning each night.
Jackson was born purple and a little bit blue, with the cord around his neck, which must have been that way for months, which must have been why he couldn’t settle and why his heartrate dropped eight weeks earlier. Ten people rushed into the room. He didn’t cry like his brothers. He was put under the heating lamps. I told them to move him near me. Ben and I caressed him and sang, and he cried. No NICU. No brain damage. Just a beautiful baby boy. A spirited, alive boy.
It was a wild little miracle COVID hit when we bought a house in Vilas and were about to move to Madison, and that is the reason why we stayed here. The friendships, the projects, The Children’s Museum…little miracles inspired from this little miracle.
It was a little miracle that our Sicilian au pair would marry a kind, handsome man from Janesville. His sister would tragically pass away mere months later, far too soon. Tragic in its timing, an addition to the family in the midst of subtraction. The forces of the universe at work.
It was a little amazing miracle that the music teacher at our Catholic school, the wife of our chief of police, would act in GODSPELL, with a Jesus played by a trans woman. That photos plastered all over social media wouldn’t be condemned. That our priest would attend a performance and understand it. That the entire experience would be full of love.
My Dad will never walk again, but it’s a miracle he’s been alive post stroke for 4.5 years. Jim will never come back, but his legacy is everlasting and lives on his community projects, and in our community projects, and most especially, in his grandchildren.
My body and mind would eventually adjust to winter, and the dark of night would begin to shorten, and soon fly by. The cold would be masked by thicker skin. The change in seasons would welcome a change in mood, a pattern that would bring productivity and predictability, a welcome, comforting, and colorful way to cycle through life.
Kali, the Hindu goddess of divine feminine energy, represents creation and destruction, both sides of the coin. Like yin and yang, they co-exist—they must exist—together. In the midst of struggle and chaos, it’s a miracle that you don’t take everything down around you as you process. Kali is so powerful, that used in the wrong way, the energy can do more harm than good. It is a miracle when you can channel her creativity. When you can walk away and let go instead of fighting back. And in that letting go is actually the little miracle of self-protection.
“The future is painted upon the palimpsest of a painful past. Upon skin that rears up in welts, angry and beautiful—a beauty that transcends anger but also wouldn’t be possible without it. And isn’t that how it always goes, catastrophe forcing reinvention?”
–Suleika Jaouad, BETWEEN TWO KINGDOMS
There is so much that could have been lost. But it wasn’t lost. It was redeemed. It is being transformed. It is a miracle.
Writers write about what they want to understand and process. In plain language, I’m still working on figuring this out. I make mistakes on a weekly basis. I upset people. I upset myself. I struggle. But I’m healing. I’m striving. I’m trying. At the end of the day, sometimes that’s the best we can do: Let ourselves off the hook. Give ourselves and each other a break. It’s a little miracle to give someone a pass. Have you ever received a pass? You know how amazing that feels. And I can tell you that it is true: time will tell the tale, the story will take a new shape, and details will fade into the distance.
Sometimes, if you take a breath and wait a minute, people will surprise you and do the right thing. You have to pause to let their arc of thought happen, as much as your own. It’s not always instant. It’s almost never instant. Sometimes, it takes years. Forgiveness is a formidable miracle only second to love, and that’s a deep crevasse we’ll traverse on another day.
Remember: You are loved. You are loved. You are loved. You are a miracle.
Breathe in.
“In grandiose moments, high on fresh air and freedom on the hill, I study my personal geology. My body is a continent. Forces are at work in the night. When I blink, the sun flickers, my breath pushes the clouds across the sky and the waves roll into the shore in time with my beating heart … The islands’ headlands rise above the sea, like my limbs in the bathtub, my freckles are famous landmarks and my tears rivers. My lovers are tectonic plates and stone cathedrals. Rain on me. Strike me with fire. I feel like lightning in slow motion. I am one fathom deep and contain the unknown. I am vibrating at a frequency invisible to man and I’m ready to be brave.” --Amy Liptrot, THE OUTRUN
Breathe out.
TEN WAYS TO MAKE LITTLE MIRACLES
1. Forgive someone. Forgive yourself. Give yourself or someone else a break.
2. Say something kind to someone rude.
3. Do it without being told. Offer without being asked.
4. Give them the benefit of the doubt. Put yourself in their shoes.
5. Don’t fight back, talk back, or lash out. Don’t have the last word.
6. Assume the best. Or, expect the worst, and do it anyway.
7. Plant a garden! No, I’m totally serious. Nature is amazing. It feels so good.
8. Have a dance party with your kids. Let it all hang out.
9. Make something. Write something. Create something new.
10. Be still. Be so still. Feel through it all, let it ride, and be held by God. Pray to Mary, The Mother. She is with you.
