Miracles

Whenever I find my mind going to “chronic disease” or putting some arbitrary time limit on my life, almost automatically, without real intention—what could almost be called a default—either I whisper or am whispered to, “Except for the miracle.” I’m a hold out for a miracle. Whether this is faith or foolish hope will invariably be proven in time.

Whether this is faith in miracle by way of a wicked cocktail of cytotoxic drugs, a willfulness to keep laughing, the drive to continue the tedious, holy work of bringing presence to the mundane of the everyday, or something else out of my hands altogether, I don’t know.

What I do know is this: cancer hasn’t made facing the everyday challenges I always have struggled with easier: the challenge to engage my children remains, the hard work of corralling my rogue thoughts out of the ruts of neurosis persists, the pursuit of being present and intentionally living in the daily, the tedium, continues. It hasn’t made it easier, but it has made it more urgent.

I guess I’ve decided that the life itself is miracle, and any extension of it is gift. Even more though, to go deep into miracle life, to really dig into the marrow of living rather than to skate the surface, merely surviving from one day to the next, is nothing less than supernatural, a grace given outside of the numbing normalcy to truly be here. And any more time I have in this pursuit will be miracle. That’s one hell of a reason to fight like a motherfucker.