Miracles are defined as the unexplainable—the events that we can’t understand, that no amount of science can decipher.  A belief in miracles is often associated with a belief in God. Why? Well, what can explain the unexplainable but an all-powerful being living in a heaven with different rules from our earth?  Perhaps, one day, we will find earthly explanations. I always believed there were. Even as a firm believer in God, a follower of Christian values, I called miracles out on their bull. God made the earth, but he also gave us science; he gave us logic to figure these things out.

So, as the grounds in Wisconsin blanketed in December’s white powder, I scoffed at the television.  My little sister, Autumn, kept her eyes strained at the display—the furry hospital, tear-stained actors at a miraculous resurrection.  I could feel my parents grin behind us. God bless the Hallmark channel.

How do people buy this stuff?

***

Despite forecasts, the drive to Illinois was uneventful. 

Every Christmas, we went to see my Grandparents in the countryside of Kirkland, Illinois.  Corn towered over the ground, and animal poultry stung noses until they bled. But I loved it there because of the peaceful feeling that filled my chest, completing everything inside me.  I adored how close I felt to heaven: lights filled the grounds, the skies. I lived to lie near the fields, close my eyes, and let something overtake me.

I didn’t even mind four hours staring out the car window. 

When the farmhouse came into view, I leaped from the car and wrapped my grandparents in a bear-hug.  I wish I could remember the exact words spoken, the banter, every pure moment I’d taken for granted. The next day, my grandpa insisted on driving my mom, sister, and me around town.  He bought us creamy milkshakes, laughed as I wore it all over my twelve-year-old face, patted his hand on my blonde head. 

“Whatcha thinking, Taylor?” he asked.

A giddy laugh escaped me as I shrugged my shoulders.  He always asked me that.

We were back at the farm.  My grandparents were in the midst of one of their iconic debates.  “Who needs a party? Let’s just stay here,” Grandma said. “Bad things always happen there.”

The Morris Christmas Party.

She wasn’t wrong.  The festive night at my Great Grandmother’s house was infamous for tragic events.  Power outages, broken-down cars, snowstorms. But nothing bad had ever happened to me.  Why would it start? I was a neutral country, protected from tragedy’s toxic chemicals. Plagues, deaths, curses…those were tucked away into the Old Testament of my Bible.

We arrived at the party at five-fifteen, all six of us crammed in the minivan.  My sister disappeared after a mouse’s helping of mashed potatoes, but I hid upstairs with the adults, listened to my grandpa’s hearty laughter.  Without warning, I climbed onto his lap.

“Woah, there, Taylor,” he chuckled.

I beamed, squeezing my arms tighter around his own.  He shifted me further onto his lap.

Later, Dad sent me downstairs to play with the other children.  I lounged on the countertop, watched the Christmas folly games, eyed my sister with her little cousins.  They squealed, chased each other with their candy canes. 

Bam.

My heart jumped at the door.  One of my great aunts poked her head from the corner.  “Hey, kids.” Her face was worn. “I need you all to stay downstairs for a while.”

I creased my brow.  “Why?”

“There’s been…an accident.”

Amber lights scorched through the basement windows. 

“Who?” I demanded.

Her lip pressed inside her mouth.  “Grandpa Dave,” she said.

***

We were in the waiting room.  I clung to my mother’s waist.

“He’s suffered a stroke,” the doctor said.  He was covered in white like the surgeons on TV.  But he was too human to be a doctor, too imperfect.  “It’s doubtful he’ll ever walk. That he’ll ever talk.  If he wakes up, it’s unlikely he’ll be able to function.”

There were words after this, but I drowned them out.  My uncle later said it was like “being trapped inside a great, terrible nightmare.” 

As days stretched to a week, I waited to wake up.

***

Christmas day, I was dragged to the chapel, Mom at my side.  I watched her fold her hands, close her eyes, her lips move inaudibly.  So strong and sure. 

“Would you like to pray?” she asked me.

I shook my head.  This wasn’t like the movies.

Back in the waiting room, they debated whether or not to pull the plug.

***

One week after the stroke, Mom asked me if I wanted to go see him, my grandpa Dave.  I didn’t hesitate.  I needed to confirm what the doctors said, prove that God really did throw us into the wild to fend for ourselves against human nature.

Lights whited my vision as we approached the room.  A doctor had warned us: this could be a traumatic situation for me.  I laughed bitterly. Trauma? We were a whole universe away from the heaven we all wanted to be in, dependent on a God who left it all to human’s sinful nature, waiting for us to come to our own oblivion.  Not traumatic at all.

Gasps escaped my throat when I opened the door. 

The aged lines, the grey hairs cropped atop his forehead, the face that everyone claimed I was cloned after.  It was him.  I remembered my aunt’s words: You might not recognize him.  She was insane. 

Starry Night came to mind, seeing him so still.  In the corner, a small pine tree my mom had laid out caught my vision.  If his heart had to stop here, I decided, it would be like going in his sleep.  I could understand why they’d want to let nature take its course, erase medical help from the picture.  But if this was the last time I’d see him, lungs rise and falling with assists from the machine…

God, let him know I’m here, I thought.  You owe me this.  Please.

I shook my head.  God didn’t owe me anything.  I was just as selfish as everyone else.

Ice tinged at my fingers when I felt his hand in mine, a pulse swaying to the beeps of the monitor.  I gave it a gentle tug, let my thoughts pass to his. No, I wasn’t ready.  But if he wanted to go, I would be okay.  I wouldn’t let anyone forget about the most selfless man I knew.  I promised to be like him, take his admirable traits and put them in myself.  If he was to die today, I knew I’d see him soon.

Watcha thinking? his words echoed.

I pushed wisps of hair from my eyes.  Show me.  Show me you know I’m here.  A stillness embodied the room, leaving nothing but the ring in my ears.  Please.  God. Don’t make me wait.

A tear trickled down my cheek.  Miracles were just too good for us.

Something pressed on my skin, and the breath left my lungs.  I glanced down to find his fingers squeezing against mine.

******