It’s 6:27 am on a Thursday morning in April. It is ordinary, unless you know how to look for miracles.
A car with a momma and a son, many miles from home, pulls up to a locked gate. “You remember the code, right?” she asks.
“Of course,” he smirks, “Remember, I have a mind for numbers.”
They get out of the car and look at one another. There is eye contact. It is a sweet miracle. I remember when we first became a family and he said, “Yous always paying attention to me; you like watching me play?” I remember later, when he won his first wrestling match, he looked into the stands and made eye contact. I remember when he walked across the commencement stage to receive his diploma from me, his eyes locked on mind. I remember when he found me across baggage claim at the Seattle airport, and he didn’t break eye contact until he hugged me.
Now, here we are, it seems like we’re standing on the edge of the world. Boats will take him into the gulf. He’s been 19 for a handful of days. He makes eye contact and chuckles.
“What do you know?” I ask, not really expecting answer. It was more a reminder for me. I know he is capable and prepared and will do just fine. He surprises me with a quick answer.
“Good things are going to happen to me and through me,” he says. He opens his arms wide and pulls me into a tight hug.
“That’s right,” I say. “Don’t forget it.”
“How could I?” he chuckles again. It’s been a mantra we’ve recited each time he goes off into the world. For many years it was part of our daily ritual.
I hold tight. “You know that you are loved. You’re capable. You’ll figure things out. This is going to be very, very good. I’m praying for you. Lots of people are praying for you. Talk to Jesus. Be kind.”
He tightens his arms around me.
I pull his cheek to me and give him a kiss. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” He picks up his bag. “I’ll call you tonight.”
“Good things…” I whisper.
He hears me and smiles, “Are going to happen to me and through me…”
“If you let them,” I finish.
If you know what to look for, you’ll see a miracle. He’s a kid who bounced around foster care from the time he was 7 months old until we adopted him just before his 8th birthday. He’s a kid who the system lost track of how many homes he was in. He’s a kid who was angry. He’s a kid who tested over and over and over if family really means forever.
He’s the kid who changed the storyline. He’s the kid who grew deep roots of attachment and developed big wings for adventure.
Off he goes—don’t miss the miracle.
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