The Miracle Seedling(s)
“mir·a·cle \ ˈmir-i-kəl
a surprising and welcome event that is not explicable by natural or scientific laws and is therefore considered to be the work of a divine agency.”
Oxford Dictionary
I’ll be the first to admit that my view of miracles is probably different than most. It’s not that I believe God is incapable of performing – and often does perform - them on His own. He plainly is and does, perhaps more frequently than even the most astute among us realize. Indeed, the New and Old Testaments are filled with examples of God “going it alone” in the miracle department: the parting of the Red Sea and the Jordan River (Exodus 14:6, 21-31 and Kings 2:14); water from the rock at Rephidim and Meribah (Exodus 17:5-7 and Numbers 20:7-11); causing the sun and moon to stand still (Joshua 10:12-14); raising the widow's son at Zarephath (1 Kings 17:17-24); the delivery of Daniel from the lion’s den (Daniel 6:16-23); the burning bush (Exodus 3:3); the turning of water into wine in Cana (John 2:1–11); the calming of the tempest in Galilee (Matthew 8:23–27); the raising of Lazarus from the dead (John 11:38–44); the multiplication of the fishes and the loaves (Matthew 14:13-21); and the curing of the 10 lepers (Luke 17:11-19) - to name only a few of the more prominent ones.
No, the place where I part company with most is in my belief that, when it comes to miracles, God actually prefers not to act alone. Stated otherwise, I believe God would much rather miracles be a collaborative exercise and that, towards that end, He regularly sews miracle seedlings – in plain and not-so-plain sight - in the hope that someone with an open, attentive, and willing heart will not only see, but work with Him to nurture them into a full grown miracle. I’m not suggesting for a minute that God is out of the Burning Bush business. He clearly isn’t. It’s just that I’ve seen and been part of too many highly improbable, difference/life-making moments that involved/required my or others’ active participation to believe that any of them (the exquisitely timed delivery of a metaphorical Life-preserver, the arrival of strangers and old friends at the doorstep of a heart-in-need, an out-stretched hand when it is least expected and often undeserved, etc.) “just happened,” nor were they a by-product of some Cosmic Coincidence. Instead, I’m convinced each had its roots in a whispered invitation from our Creator to join Him in conferring or completing a miracle.
I’ve written about many of those moments - the times when I’ve been privileged to be a Seedling Recipient or Nurturer: My Christmas Eve detour to an tiny Italian restaurant in the middle of nowhere; my lunchtime encounter with a homeless woman at a local Chick-fil-a; the young woman in the bright yellow dress and the audition that almost wasn’t; countless life-altering letters that, despite been desperately needed, likely never would have been written without the germination of the precious seedlings I’m referring to; and too many unlikely paths crossed with strangers who, in those precise moments, just needed someone to notice their hurt, courage, struggles, and offer a glimpse of hope. On occasion, I’ve also written about some of the times I’ve humbly feasted on the fruit of those seedlings. But, I’ve never written about the seedling(s) that mattered most. And, looking back, I’m not entirely sure why that is.
Maybe it’s because telling the story would mean acknowledging that, after 36 years of trying to make the broken pieces of “us” and our marriage fit together, I’d finally given up hope. Maybe it’s because it would mean revisiting the countless hours I spent flailing around in seemingly impenetrable darkness in the year and a half separation that followed searching for the best parts of me that somehow had gotten lost along the way. Maybe it’s because doing so would mean reintroducing myself to the anger, bitterness, and resentment that took turns serving as unwelcomed companions during that unspeakably lonely journey. Maybe it’s because coming clean would mean ripping the band-aids off scar tissue that only recently has begun to form around soul-deep wounds left behind by others’ indifference. Or maybe, not unlike the Prodigal Son, my silence stems from the guilt and shame associated with having to admit, after a lifetime spent convincing myself I had it all figured out, all under control that I had neither.
Then again, maybe that’s precisely why I should’ve written about it long ago – and am sharing it now. Because the starkness of the backdrop only serves to highlight how unexpected and magnificent the sidewalk seedling that changed it all was. Truth is: It would be impossible without knowing the depth of the pain and confusion that preceded it - and all that consumed me in that moment - to truly appreciate the profound and sudden sense of peace that came over me and, in an instant, washed it all away or the clarity with which the path forward was presented to me. It certainly wasn’t something I expected or, in my anger and self-pity, necessarily even wanted at the time. It also would be hard to imagine a more unlikely place to sew a miracle seed that beautiful: A barren sidewalk, near a random ATM, on a busy street corner in downtown Coral Gables. And yet, there it was – in plain sight – an invitation to redemption. Still, I suppose, in retrospect, I could have chosen to walk away, to simply leave that seedling to languish and eventually shrivel up and die. We’re all given that choice and, I suspect, consciously or subconsciously, we actually make it a number of times a day.
But, not me. Not that day. Not that seed. No, I picked it up, held it close, took it home – and watered it with a firehouse. And, it changed my life. The thing is: I was bet-my-life certain there were two seedlings on the sidewalk that day - and I made a very deliberate point of picking both of them up ...
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