Miracle Making Business

My relationship with God got off to a shaky start.

It all began when I was about 7 years old, my Mom began falling a lot. We would be walking in the grocery store or Marshalls and then poof she would be sprawled out on the linoleum floor.  At first I thought that she must have slipped or tripped but after many more tumbles, I realized that there wasn’t anything wrong with the floor.

She had something called Multiple Sclerosis. For a kid that was merely a big word that meant that she was tippy and had to wear sensible shoes with gummy soles. As her MS progressed, her choices in footwear declined.  No heels, she would need lace up styles that could fit a plastic molded brace that cupped her heel and wrapped her calf. Shoes the color of Band-Aids where preferable, since they coordinated with anything.

So what got God and me off to a rocky start?

It began with something that my older sister said to me.  Karen was 6 years older and a couple of feet taller than me.  So, when I was 7 years old,  she was an adult.  OK, I know the math doesn’t add up,  but that is how it felt.  She was 5’9” tall, brainy and brazen, even her questions sounded like statements. One day she bent down, her face close and said flatly “You know Mom is going to be deaf and crippled someday.”

Whoa, my mind went into a scary swirl; I was blown into a horrific vision of a disintegrated future. Visions of my Mother wasting away in a wheelchair wearing a dull look of deaf silence swept cold through me.

I blew out of the house crying and headed towards my friend and next-door neighbor Lee Ann Soszynski’s. We each lived in old country houses set back from the road. When we saw each other, we would run through the windy, long, flattened path of un-mowed grass that adjoined our property.  I was bawling as I winded through the familiar route.

Once I got to Lee’s house, I was sobbing fat tears as I shared the details that my Mom was a goner.  Lee Ann was a couple years older than me and had then what I would later realize was an aristocratic beauty, perfectly straight pale blond hair, steady blue eyes, and a boyishly slim elongated figure.

Lee’s elegant looks weren’t the only difference between us, she was also a Catholic.  More precisely she was a Catholic in training since she was going to weekly CCD classes. What I didn’t know is that her Catholic teachings where going to introduce me to God.

With a ragged voice, I told Lee Ann of the plight that would soon ravage my Mother; she calmly reached for an oversized paperback CCD book from her night table. Lee opened the book to a page that showed a hand-drawn pictured of a little girl kneeling by a twin bed. The girl wore a loose white nightgown; her head was lowered as if she was interested in the blue braided rug beneath her. Her hands were touching palm-to-palm, fingers up.

Lee pointed to the page and said, “All you have to do is pray for a miracle.” I replied unsure of the word, “A miracle, what’s that?”.  “A miracle is when God answers your prayers”.  Huh? I thought.

Lee continued  “God gives out miracles, but only when you really need them, and you can only get one miracle in your entire life.”  I nodded my head weighing her words. Lee pointed to the page of the little girl and instructed me how to order up a miracle. “Tonight you have to kneel by your bed, don’t fall asleep,” Lee widened her eyes to illustrate the importance of that fine fact. Then she tapped on the picture of the girls praying hands, “keep your hands together like this, and ask God over and over again to take away your Moms Multiple Sclerosis.  In the morning you will have a miracle and your Mom won’t be sick anymore.”

Wow, those Catholics sure have some perks. I wiped away my tears, straightened myself up and literally skipped home. As I winded my way back, I was thinking how lucky I was to have learned about this secret miracle ritual. Now there was only me and few other well-read CCD kids that shared the inside healing scoop. Victory was only a morning away.

That night, I assume the miracle making position.

Kneeling, head bent forward, hands together and ask God to cure my Mom. This was my first time ever talking to God, so I was a bit unsure how to go about it. I went with the straight forward, no frills approach…. “please heal my Mom, God.” After a while I relaxed into more of a conversational version of the same wish. I sympathized that He probably had a busy day. I could see how things could get messed up in his line of work; surely he didn’t mean to give my Mom MS to start with. Finally I thanked him for his miracle making-ness. All was going well, to be utterly truthful I was pretty proud of myself, until I woke up. Oh no, I had fallen asleep, that was one of the key Miracle Making laws, no falling asleep. I got back on my now tender knees, and once again began asked God to cure my Mom. This time there was no casual chitter chatter; it was time for straight Miracle Making business.

When morning came I felt all bubbly with anticipation, like I had guzzled a glass of Sprite.

My Mother was in the kitchen making breakfast when I went to inspect my work. I watched her move about as she whisked some eggs. She didn’t tip over. Looking good, I nodded to myself. I stood awkwardly by her, waiting for her to exclaim that she was healed. I began silently rehearsing how I would casually take credit for the good news. She must have sensed that I was waiting for something, because she asked me what I was doing.

With a smug smile plastered on my face I said, “Do you still have MS?” still having trouble pronouncing Multiple Sclerosis. I waited anxiously for her to confide the details how she had woken up cured; maybe she’d knock out a couple of high kicks to celebrate.

“Yes, of course I do” she said evenly.

That was the exact moment, that God and I stopped talking.

I didn’t see him as all-powerful. I would be cordial if I was in a room with people who thought He was the Supreme Being. I wouldn’t let on that I knew the truth. The truth was God was nice enough, but he couldn’t really be counted on.

Forty-three years have passed since that day and despite many inspirational books and countless religious inquiries, I still have had my secret struggles with God being all-powerful.

There is no doubt that there are staggering examples of where and when God has swooped in and saved the day. My challenge is how to make peace with the many desperate pleas that go without Godly intervention.

My mind was firmly unsettled and unchanged, until last year on Christmas Eve.

My now 84-year-old Mother and I went to a small non-denominational Christmas service. It was an astoundingly beautiful evening. There was a crescendo of evangelic music, zillions of flickering candles, and a head-nodding sermon.

On the ride home, I confided to my Mother the story that I just told you. She listened but said nothing. We drove the rest of the way home in soft silence. As I pulled up to her home, she got out of the car, aided only by her sporty black crutch. Once out, she leaned forward into the car and said casually, “ you know, it worked.”

“What worked?” I said. “I am not crippled or deaf, it worked. God did hear you.”

My breath caught in my throat, as I backed up the car.  I found myself smiling and crying.

Tonight I owe God another conversation.

Amy Archer

This past winter I squatted in our family cottage In Rockport Massachusetts. It was a particularly harsh season to be alone in a cabin with no insulation. There were countless days that I opened the front door to grab the mail from the worn wicker mailbox outside. I had this romantic notion of obtaining a spiritual epiphany during this self-inflicted isolation. In truth I spend most of those arctic days tightly wrapped in a big bathrobe feeling squirrely, insecure & occasionally writing about memorable moments.

Visit Amy's blog, Bathrobe Writings