Ordinary miracles

There was one sun hiding just beyond the horizon until time came to beckon the revelation of its borders.  It hung in the sky as an ordinary ornament and we all went about our days taking light for granted.  And did anyone stop to think of the miracle of this strange orb hanging purposed in the sky?


















So it was with this day in its plainness.  I breathed of boring air, and I took presuming beats of heart because that's what I've always done.  Just outside the miracle was rising and peering in my very windows, and I was thoughtless to go about my way.

The day followed me as I packed lunches and kissed children good-bye.  It was just behind on my way to the grocery and again on my way home.  Still was its presence holding as the children piled into the house loaded down with books and papers and stories of their own day's followings.

 Soon the sun tired and drifted slow below the line of crowded trees leaving streaks of pinks and oranges in its falling.  It gathered but a glance from eyes as it fulfilled a magnificent descent.  Then the fully round moon did come.

It was after they were all tucked in bed and the prayers had been whispered right upon their foreheads that my Love tells me what ordinary days bring.  It was the two of them, father and son, riding home hours after the sun yawned its last when the boy asked the man what salvation was all about.  The father explains in the simplicity of conversing to a boy that what all this really means is that we have been offered a gift, the every day miracle of salvation, and we only need to ask.

He later goes into the son's room just before the sleeping, and hears the request.  And if a holy host of angels had filled the room with mighty voices, it would not have been sweeter to this father's ear than the tender words of his son wanting to ask for that gift.  Prayers were offered up, gifts of grace given and received, a precious life redeemed.

I think of the sun, of ordinary days, of all these blessed miracles hiding in plain sight.  Perhaps, I wonder, if we are all blind and need only to ask for the gift of sight.

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