by Amy Newmark
Within seconds, it was apparent that this geezer could really cut a rug! He moved with grace and fluidity and his dance frame was impeccable. Gliding around the floor with this stranger was sheer delight.
“You’re so smooth,” I swooned as he twirled me out.
“I used to be a Fred Astaire dance instructor,” he modestly confided.
Exuberant and now totally in my element, my hustle moves exploded with a style and grace reminiscent of my Saturday Night Fever disco days growing up in Brooklyn. As I scanned the tables of admirers, I caught the attention of a handsome man with scintillating blue eyes and biceps to die for. Not to mention, he had a gorgeous smile.
Upon capturing his gaze, I accentuated my movements even more, coquettishly tilting my head back and swirling my arm upwards, wrist arched delicately with feminine flair. The flirting continued as I was led seamlessly from one dance move to another.
Apparently, this antiquated ballroom teacher was also a black belt in karate. After swinging me out in a double turn, he assumed a side-by-side position and executed a perfect side kick that would have stunned Bruce Lee. Now, we were really putting on a show, with disco moves and martial arts combined into one! I glanced at the handsome admirer, who could barely contain his laughter. Reveling in the attention, I continued flirting with the hunk for several more minutes.
Finally, our performance was over and I was back at my table. My heart fluttered in anticipation of the potential suitor. Thankfully, the good-looking heartthrob made a beeline in my direction.
“That was quite a performance with ‘Miracle on Ice,’ ” he joked. He introduced himself as Joe.
Just as the humorous banter with Joe hit a high note, I discovered he was a forty-nine-year-old bachelor. My heart sank as I waited to hear that he still lived in his mother’s basement. But I was pleasantly surprised that Joe was a school social worker. Also, he was a professional counselor who owned a condo. Could it be that he was as much a people person as I was, finding joy in teaching, inspiring and counseling others? I felt an immediate kinship, and we danced and chatted the night away.
The next day I received a call from a dorky guy named Harvey in desperate need of dance instruction. A few minutes into the conversation, I realized it was Joe, playfully honing his acting skills. Thoroughly amused, I prepared to dazzle him with my culinary skills, using tried-and-true recipes from my grandmother’s Italian kitchen. He was smitten, but I was even more flabbergasted when he reciprocated and cooked a scrumptious dinner of roasted chicken and potatoes.
Astounded that he had more cooking apparatus than I did, I perused the shelves of his kitchen to discover every conceivable food processor, blender and other contraptions. Joe demonstrated one unfamiliar gadget, the apple corer, by creating a delicious apple pie. When Mom, the quintessential baker, complimented his pie crust, I knew he was a keeper. Was it possible that this Irish bachelor enjoyed cooking and entertaining as much as I did?
Several months later, an acrostic poem with my named showed up in which Joe captured my very essence. Yes, we completely understood each other.
At last, I found my soul mate! On a beautiful summer day four years after that momentous dance, I married my Prince Charming. The fifty-three-year-old bachelor gave me his heart, and he was definitely worth waiting for. How grateful I was that I never stopped believing and trusting in a second chance at love.
Nestled between my two grown sons as I glided down the aisle, I noticed tears of joy from my praying girlfriends. Our hearts marveled at the goodness and faithfulness of God, providing the perfect man in His perfect timing. It all started with “Miracle on Ice,” and now my own fairytale miracle had finally come true.
~Leslie Tierney
The Full Circle Miracle
Faith is not belief without proof, but trust without reservation.
~Elton Trueblood
“But my debit card has to work,” I said to the store clerk. “My paycheck was deposited into that account just this morning.”
The clerk shrugged. “It’s declined your card three times.”
“But there’s money in my account,” I said. I looked at the much-needed groceries and then into the faces of my two young children. “I’m going to my bank to get the money,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”
While driving to the bank, I fought back tears. Why did everything have to be so hard? I was going through a divorce I didn’t want. I was struggling financially, emotionally, even spiritually.
Maybe especially spiritually.
The news at the bank wasn’t good.
“According to our records, your checking account has been frozen because of unpaid taxes,” the teller said.
“But that’s not possible,” I protested. “I don’t owe any back taxes.” But even as I said the words, I realized what must have happened. “I’m going through a divorce,” I explained, “and my name is still on a lot of my ex-husband’s liabilities. I’ll bet this is just a mix-up.”
The teller shrugged and said, “We can’t remove the lien from your account until we get the government’s approval, and that can take several weeks.”
I could feel tears in my eyes. “So I can’t use my account until then?”
“That’s right,” the teller said and then she looked past me to the next person in line.
When we got home, my three-year-old daughter, Julia, began to cry. “But I wanted chicken for dinner,” she whined. “We have to go back to the grocery store.”
“We can’t,” I said. “The card that I use to pay for things doesn’t work right now.”
She shrugged. “Let’s just use regular money.”
“I don’t have any of that either,” I said.
Six-year-old Jordan’s eyes grew big. “How are we going to buy stuff?”
The tears I’d been holding back finally spilled over. “I wish I knew, buddy.”
That night, we had macaroni and cheese for dinner. It was the last box in my nearly empty pantry. By bedtime, Julia had forgotten about the chicken she’d wanted, but I could tell Jordan was worried.
“We’re doing all right, bud,” I said, rubbing his back. “Mac and cheese is your favorite anyway.”
His blue eyes looked troubled as he said, “Yeah, Mom, but what about tomorrow?”
I pressed my cheek to the top of his head and muttered, “Yeah, Lord, what about tomorrow?”
Although I knew what the Bible said about God hearing our prayers, lately I’d been wondering if those verses applied to me. I would definitely need some divine intervention to get through this one.
The next day was Saturday, but I still woke up early. I was wondering how I was going to tell the kids that there would be no milk for their cereal that morning when the doorbell rang. It was my neighbor, and she was holding a bag of groceries.
“We’re going on vacation,” she said, “and this food won’t be any good when we get back. Can you use it?”
My mouth dropped open. “Oh, yes, thank you so much,” I said.
“I’ve got some milk too, if you want it,” she said.
“Yes, please,” I said quickly. “We just ran out last night.” I felt tears fill my eyes. “You don’t realize how much this means right now.”
My neighbor waved her hand through the air. “It’s no big deal.”
“You’ve become an answer to my prayers,” I insisted.
I hugged her and wished her a safe trip. I closed the door and breathed a sigh of relief. My kids would have milk for their cereal that morning, and as an added blessing, chicken for dinner that night.
The food from my neighbor didn’t last long, but when it was gone, another unexpected bounty appeared. And then another one after that. A friend lent me some money, my mom sent a pre-paid card for the gas station, another family member invited us over for dinner. Somehow, we were getting by.
Five weeks later, I was finally granted access to my checking account. The first thing I did was head to the grocery store to stock up on non-per
ishable food. If something like this ever happened again, I wanted to be prepared.
I filled my cart to overflowing. Both of the kids looked at me with wide eyes. “Why are you buying so much food, Mommy?” Julia asked.
“Because the last few weeks have been really hard, and I want to make sure nothing like that ever happens to us again.” I smiled. “I have to take care of you and your brother.”
Jordan frowned. “Isn’t taking care of us God’s job?”
His words stopped me short. “Yes, but I’ll just feel more secure if I buy this stuff.”
“But why, Mom?” Jordan asked. “God answered our prayers. He made sure we had milk for our cereal and gas for the car.” He smiled. “God even remembered Julia’s chicken.”
I looked at the grocery cart and realized its contents would feed my small family for several months. There is nothing wrong with being prepared, but I was going too far. This shopping trip wasn’t about stocking up on canned goods; it was an indicator that my heart wasn’t in the right place. Despite God’s faithfulness during the last few weeks, I still wasn’t trusting Him to answer my prayers.
I murmured a quick prayer, asking God to help me trust Him. I felt His peace come over me, and when I opened my eyes, I knew what He wanted us to do.
I smiled at my children and said, “You’re right. God did take care of us. And now, we have a chance to care for others.”
I purchased every bit of food in that cart, but we took less than half of it home with us. Most of it went to our church’s food bank.
Answered prayers are always a miracle, and more often than not, God uses other people in that process. My children and I had been the beneficiaries of answered prayer, and now, the food we were donating could become the answer to someone else’s prayer.
And that was a full circle miracle.
~Diane Stark
Teacher in a Wheelchair
A few years of trouble, ten thousand years of bliss.
~Chinese Proverb
Hobbling across the parking lot like a crippled old man, I was feeling mighty sorry for myself. My injured back was not getting any better, and I had begun to wonder if the constant pain would ever go away. The doctors and surgeons, specialists and therapists, chiropractors and acupuncturists, pain pills and cortisone injections, spinal manipulation and electrical stimulation did not seem to help me, and my insurance coverage and savings account were both running out. Therefore, I was being “shown the door” and left to battle the problem alone.
Such was my mindset as I entered the grocery store in Durango, Colorado that afternoon to pick up a few things on my way home. Walking down the aisle, I spotted a young man in a motorized wheelchair. His entire body was twisted and deformed. Something horrible had happened to him, possibly while still in the womb, and as a result his arms and legs and torso and neck were all curled around each other. Everything was completely out of whack.
Well, not quite everything . . .
For right behind the boy stood his mother, a small blonde woman with a round and gentle face. Blissfully shopping for groceries while simultaneously operating the control stick at the rear of the wheelchair, she seemed to be moving in some sort of sacred synchronicity with her son as if they were one living being rather than two.
I could see the whole story with just that first look. The early signs of trouble, the worry, the diagnosis, the confirmation. The silent agony, the growing darkness, the “Why me, Lord?” questions. The endless doctor appointments, the operations, the ever-ongoing therapy. And yet also plainly apparent was that stubborn, steely, never-say-die attitude.
Because, you see, that child needed help, lots and lots of help, and his mother gave it to him. Simply, freely, unconditionally. In essence, his suffering became hers, and her joy became his. Something was being shared here, exchanged here, transformed here. It reminded me of a scene in the movie Resurrection where the healer cures a crippled woman of a similar affliction, but then temporarily exhibits a grotesque contortion of her own limbs, even as the patient stands up for the first time in her life.
This marvelous film from 1980 starring Ellen Burstyn is based on a true story about a woman who almost dies in a car crash, but then somehow returns from Heaven with the ability to lay hands on sick people and heal them. When pressed to reveal exactly which God or entity enables her to perform such miracles, she describes it simply as “the power of love.”
As I neared the woman and her son in the wheelchair at the end of the supermarket aisle, he appeared to be trying to say something, but it wasn’t easy for him to do. His mother leaned down to listen, and then suddenly both of them burst out laughing! Whatever he said was obviously outrageously funny, and the two of them enjoyed a good long belly laugh together.
Normal, healthy, able-bodied people walking past must have wondered what these poor souls could possibly have to laugh about, and yet laugh they did. Unrestrained, unashamed, unstoppable mirth emanated from them both, as if they had not a single care in the world.
Instead of a hundred of them.
As I passed this tender scene, my mind ran down a list of things that the young man had never done, and probably never would do. Yet he seemed, at least for a precious minute, to be happy. I suddenly found myself in a totally different frame of mind than the pitiful one I’d known only minutes earlier. For as I walked around the store—on my own two legs—and carried my groceries—with my own two hands—and prepared to leave—all on my own—I stopped moping and feeling sorry for myself. My back problem no longer seemed so serious, so worrisome, so capable of ruining my entire life. In fact — almost miraculously — I could scarcely feel it anymore.
Just before heading out the door, I glanced back and saw the young man in the motorized wheelchair approaching the checkout stand with Mom right behind him. Although no longer laughing out loud, both had serene looks on their faces in spite of the enormous lifelong affliction that they shared. For the two of them, together, had discovered the key to happiness.
While I was still learning.
~Curt Melliger
Music Is His Voice
Music is the universal language of mankind.
~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Music is a very important part of our son’s life. In fact, at a recent karate lesson, John asked his teacher, “Do you know ‘The Reflex’?” His teacher was not familiar with John’s new favorite song, “The Reflex” by Duran Duran. In typical John fashion, he was stunned that his teacher did not know about “his music.” He promptly asked me to make a karate mix to introduce his teacher to “The Reflex.” We have come such a long way, I thought.
It’s not easy to go back to that time—the time before the diagnosis. Our precious Johnny was different from the other toddlers in our group of friends. We would go to playgroups and I would feel so isolated and lonely because all of the other moms were talking about the milestones their kids were achieving: potty training, reciting the alphabet, making animal sounds, etc. My son was not achieving these milestones. Heck, he could barely talk! Even at two years old, I had to translate John’s special language for everyone because no one could really understand him.
I wished I had the key to unlock my son. Then one day, we turned on the Disney Channel and the most miraculous thing happened to our family—The Wiggles! If you’re not in the know, The Wiggles are a children’s musical group from Australia. As soon as we turned on The Wiggles for the first time, John began to dance. It was almost like there was an instant connection between John and this brand new type of music. Could The Wiggles be the key?
The Wiggles became John’s obsession, although I prefer the term “special interest.” We bought their DVDs and CDs, and on the night before he was supposed to start preschool, we attended our first Wiggles concert.
I never thought I would say that a Wiggles concert was amazing, but it was! John was mesmerized by the light show and we sang along to the songs. The look of sheer and utter joy on my son’s face was almost too
much for me. I teared up throughout the concert and tried to swallow my love and gratitude for this lovely band that brought my son to life.
On the next day, John started preschool. I let him wear his new Wiggles T-shirt and I really thought that the T-shirt was a kind of suit of armor, one that would protect him and give him comfort when I could not be there for him. He jumped into the classroom and started “talking” to everyone about the “Errrgles.” No one knew what the heck he was talking about. As usual, everyone looked at me, and I said, “He’s talking about The Wiggles.” Oh! And there was a connection for the teacher to engage John. Yay!
The year passed, and although John had differences, we thought he was doing quite well at school. We were lulled into a sense of comfort, until the Christmas party during his second year of preschool that changed everything.
I was very happy as I drove to the preschool that day to volunteer at John’s Christmas party. John’s classroom was decorated beautifully: green and red paper chains were all over the room, and paper snow-flakes filled the ceiling and walls of his cheery classroom. Games were set up, and all of the children were excited—all the children except my son. John was extremely detached from the action. He did not even really respond when I walked into the classroom with his sister, Colleen. He sat alone in the corner of the room. My world collapsed. What was going on?
Even though I prodded, John would not participate in any of the games. Rather, he wanted to stare into a seemingly empty fish tank. The difference between John and the other students was glaring and vast. I felt myself wanting to cry. When I asked the teacher if John participated in school activities, she said, “Well, no. John is very sweet. But John likes to sit in the corner and watch the hermit crabs.” I was shattered. What was going on? It seemed that John was becoming more and more detached from the world.
After that revealing day at school, I made an appointment with a developmental pediatrician. After that appointment, we had our answer. John was diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder in March 2010. Although I should have been relieved, I believed it would have been easier to suffer a gunshot wound. I was traumatized because after every other diagnosis—speech delay, sensory processing disorder—I thought, well, at least it’s not autism. Autism became somewhat of a death sentence in my mind. It was a scary disorder about which I knew nothing, yet I feared it more than anything.