Some periodicals and magazines I read regularly. I am not particularly looking for anything. I know they have some good writers and routinely I find things that I am glad to know. I am not sure where else I would have found out these things. I know I could survive without knowing them, but they help me to thrive. Recently I was reading one of those periodicals and happened on an article by Amy Morris-Young. I don’t know Amy, but I would like to meet her.
The title of the little article was catchy. “The everyday miracle of calmness,” I read at the head of the page. I was hooked. I began reading, but had no clue what would come. I remember reading some of her things before, but don’t recall anything particular. The early part of her story narrated how she and her husband and son now drive somewhat farther from home in order to attend a church that is a little more spirited and engaging. That is certainly not novel. I have known people for years that would bypass one Quaker meetinghouse to go attend a different Quaker congregation. Like it or not, that seems fairly normal.
Then her story got really interesting. It turned out Amy saw another neighbor from her home town. Like Amy, they were now coming miles further to be with this particular congregation. Almost as a courtesy, Amy asked the other woman how things were. The woman replied with some tears, “My son was healed last week!” Amy’s response would have been mine: “What?” The neighbor shared the story. “My son. He is 30. He was born with a bad back. He has struggled with pain his whole life. A man at his church asked if he could pray for him last week, and lay hands on him. And my son was healed! His back is all better. No more pain! Can you believe it?”
Amy had mixed feelings when asked if she believed it. I like how she writes, because I think I must be similar to her. I like the humor in her response. “I hoped my face was reflecting back only joy for her and her son, because I realized that my brain was instantly skeptical. I mean, we are Catholic, not Pentecostal, right?” Essentially, she claims that she is not the kind of person who normally goes around expecting miracles. In that sense she probably represents many of us. We don’t either.
This could be the end of the story, but it is not. Her neighbor was a bit insistent, when she asked again. “Can you believe it?” This is when Amy began to realize her understanding of human nature and of God were at stake. And this is where I began to be open and grow. Amy reflects in helpful ways. “It dawned on me that she really wanted me to. And I pondered that just maybe it was real. That even though it might appear to be random, maybe it was no accident that the only seats available to us were right here, right at this spot, next to this woman who would share this exact news with me.”
She turned to the woman and said, “Yes, yes, I do believe it.” And then began what I am going to call Amy’s personal miracle. Listen to her words. “I tried to focus on the ritual words and music but found myself feeling profoundly humble and somehow broken open, standing alone in the mist from my own surprising hot tears. I did believe it. I did believe that God could and did heal this young man. My cynical brain was no longer in charge. This understanding emanated from a deep primitive place within me. I felt at once both isolated from those around me, and in the encompassing presence of God.”
I resonate with this. Sometimes, I think to be open is a miracle. When I listen to the political rhetoric of our time or cope with the selfishness and cynicism of our culture, I realize it probably would take a miracle to make things different. It makes me fervently believe in and hope for miracles. Amy’s own miracle is in process. In the quietness of worship, she heard these words: “Just relax and let me love you.” She shared that she has had a lifetime of neck and back injuries, too. Like I would no doubt have said, “It had never occurred to me to ask God for help.”
She is open and willing to participate with a different God than she had come to church to worship. She is not setting conditions---if you do this, then I will do that. She is receptive, but not coercive. I love the last line of her essay, which affirms that she is in process. “No matter how it goes, or how long it takes, that is already a miracle.”
The miracle is the message from God: let me love you. That is both true and miraculous.
The title of the little article was catchy. “The everyday miracle of calmness,” I read at the head of the page. I was hooked. I began reading, but had no clue what would come. I remember reading some of her things before, but don’t recall anything particular. The early part of her story narrated how she and her husband and son now drive somewhat farther from home in order to attend a church that is a little more spirited and engaging. That is certainly not novel. I have known people for years that would bypass one Quaker meetinghouse to go attend a different Quaker congregation. Like it or not, that seems fairly normal.
Then her story got really interesting. It turned out Amy saw another neighbor from her home town. Like Amy, they were now coming miles further to be with this particular congregation. Almost as a courtesy, Amy asked the other woman how things were. The woman replied with some tears, “My son was healed last week!” Amy’s response would have been mine: “What?” The neighbor shared the story. “My son. He is 30. He was born with a bad back. He has struggled with pain his whole life. A man at his church asked if he could pray for him last week, and lay hands on him. And my son was healed! His back is all better. No more pain! Can you believe it?”
Amy had mixed feelings when asked if she believed it. I like how she writes, because I think I must be similar to her. I like the humor in her response. “I hoped my face was reflecting back only joy for her and her son, because I realized that my brain was instantly skeptical. I mean, we are Catholic, not Pentecostal, right?” Essentially, she claims that she is not the kind of person who normally goes around expecting miracles. In that sense she probably represents many of us. We don’t either.
This could be the end of the story, but it is not. Her neighbor was a bit insistent, when she asked again. “Can you believe it?” This is when Amy began to realize her understanding of human nature and of God were at stake. And this is where I began to be open and grow. Amy reflects in helpful ways. “It dawned on me that she really wanted me to. And I pondered that just maybe it was real. That even though it might appear to be random, maybe it was no accident that the only seats available to us were right here, right at this spot, next to this woman who would share this exact news with me.”
She turned to the woman and said, “Yes, yes, I do believe it.” And then began what I am going to call Amy’s personal miracle. Listen to her words. “I tried to focus on the ritual words and music but found myself feeling profoundly humble and somehow broken open, standing alone in the mist from my own surprising hot tears. I did believe it. I did believe that God could and did heal this young man. My cynical brain was no longer in charge. This understanding emanated from a deep primitive place within me. I felt at once both isolated from those around me, and in the encompassing presence of God.”
I resonate with this. Sometimes, I think to be open is a miracle. When I listen to the political rhetoric of our time or cope with the selfishness and cynicism of our culture, I realize it probably would take a miracle to make things different. It makes me fervently believe in and hope for miracles. Amy’s own miracle is in process. In the quietness of worship, she heard these words: “Just relax and let me love you.” She shared that she has had a lifetime of neck and back injuries, too. Like I would no doubt have said, “It had never occurred to me to ask God for help.”
She is open and willing to participate with a different God than she had come to church to worship. She is not setting conditions---if you do this, then I will do that. She is receptive, but not coercive. I love the last line of her essay, which affirms that she is in process. “No matter how it goes, or how long it takes, that is already a miracle.”
The miracle is the message from God: let me love you. That is both true and miraculous.
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