My guardian angel must feel a little sorry for me. He decided to throw me a few bones. I’m sure I have a guardian angel, who I suspect is a guy. I have no idea why I think it’s a he. I think he probably laughs at me a lot, and throws up his hands, and says, “I can’t believe what she’s doing now!” I imagine he shakes his head as if to say, “Oh, brother.”
In just the span of two days, I have been granted three miracles. That’s what they must be. I moved my dad this past weekend to a new location that is closer to me, from a downstairs apartment to an upstairs one. Oh, you can imagine how joyous that was for all movers involved, which consisted of me, my husband, my elderly father, and my two, wild children. Actually, my kids were more helpful than I thought they would be. In any case, a skeleton crew.
The lease signing, truck rental, all in turmoil with everything at the eleventh hour, required that we rent a U-Haul. If you remember, that didn’t go so well the last time. (Here’s my story here, if you’re interested.) Just know that I’ve spent the last decade or so giving U-Haul the middle finger. It so happens that this U-Haul was a good operation, the truck relatively new, and the customer service outstanding. This was my first miracle.
The last time I moved my father was about five months ago. At that time, my husband had a horrendous case of shingles and had been excused from helping. You won’t believe this one. Here we are moving again, and he’s having a recurring onset of shingles! Coincidence? What, I ask you, are the chances of this happening? I mean, you can’t make this shit up, Gracie. Needless to say, this made the move more difficult. His shingles were in the preliminary stages. Probably by the end of the week, a move of any kind would be impossible.
So, here we are at the tail end of the move, it’s almost dark, and we still had a good number of boxes, and all the heavy furniture, and all going upstairs. My back ached, my plantar fascia throbbing, dehydrated, short-tempered, exhausted, looking from the truck to the stairs, and back again, I took one look at that U-Haul truck and said, “I can’t.” I had hit mover’s rock bottom. Mental and physical fatigue merged together rendering me motionless.
It was at this moment, as if dropped from the sky, that a mother and her two teenage sons happened to be in the neighborhood and stood before me. “Can we help you?” she asked. Shock and disbelief pulsed through me, and then a resounding, “Yes! We need help.” It was beyond my wildest dreams; with their help we had the job done in a half hour. They didn’t want a pizza or cared if we even knew their names. Saints, that’s what they were, and my second miracle.
My third miracle happened the next evening. Driving away from my dad’s new apartment, my gas gauge starting working. Just like that. I turned my car on, and I noticed the little needle registering on the dial. I had three-quarters of a full tank of gas. Another miracle, really. I thought I was almost on empty. If you recall my recent troubles, you know that I have been driving the last two weeks with a faulty gas gauge, wondering if I had gas, believing that at any time I might be stranded. Having a non-working gas gauge only works if you can fill your tank every time you gas up. Otherwise, you can imagine how this might be easily miscalculated.
So, I ask myself. Should I even trust this gas gauge? How do I really know if it’s actually working? In light of recent, fortunate events, I’m going to accept that it is functioning properly.
It has occurred to me that while many of us would like to win the lottery and or have some big wish granted, it may be these small miracles that carry us through. They could be such little things, we wouldn’t even know to ask for them or that they would be just the thing we need. I marvel that there must be something more, a bigger design, held together by small deeds and the power of grace. I believe it is there if you stop to notice.