Miracles

I’m a believer in miracles.

By definition, a miracle is “an event that appears inexplicable by the laws of nature and so is held to be supernatural in origin or an act of God.” (American Heritage Dictionary)

Pope John Paul II has one miracle attributed to him, and is on his way toward sainthood. Has one, needs another.

The births of each of my children, and now grandchildren, were miracles, each and every one. There’s just no other way to explain it.

That my wonderful wife has put up with me for as long as she has is nothing short of miraculous. Really, it is.

My best friend ejected out of a stricken Marine F-4 Phantom jet at an altitude of less than one-hundred feet. He was so low that his chute couldn’t deploy, and he tumbled violently across a freshly plowed field sitting atop a rocket-assisted ejection seat. Had there not been a divine intervention, I would not have had a 20+ year friendship of such quality that one is lucky if one has 2-3 such friendships over an entire lifetime. He got lucky, and consequently, so did I.

I believe the recovery of Rep. Gabrielle Giffords will be seen as miraculous before all is said and done. Actually, it seems like a miracle that she has survived at all, given her injury.

There are miracles among my fellow church members, ranging from organ transplants to sudden awakenings from deep comas.

“Do you believe in miracles?” shouted announcer Al Michaels as the young USA Olympians beat the vaunted Russians in ice hockey in 1980 Lake Placid Winter Games.

The 33 Chilean miners trapped for more than two months, and then dramatically rescued. A miracle? I certainly thought so as I watched in utter amazement.

I’m a believer in miracles, and as I finish my next novel and prepare to take it to market, guess what I’ll be hoping for?

Yep, you guessed it.

From the Hangar to the Taxiway

I have written a suspense novel that deals with the rough-and-tumble of the business world. It involves a firm that suddenly loses its longtime leader, and then struggles to put the pieces back together again in the aftermath. Along the way, there are changes that are both unpleasant and potentially destructive. The firm finds itself woefully near to the cliff’s edge.

Will someone emerge and rescue this great company from taking on more water than it can stand, and still remain afloat? Is anyone strong enough or resourceful enough to find a way? Hmmm . . . stay tuned.

In the meantime, I am ready to begin the final editing process. One of my critical readers has recently finished with her excellent review. Today I heard from a longtime, trusted friend and former colleague who was also kind enough to read and comment on the manuscript. He is the CEO of a large, respected company and has held other CEO positions in his distinguished business career. His feedback was positive and highly encouraging, not to mention useful, and he even mentioned several marketing avenues for the book that I had not previously considered (that’s why he’s a CEO).

Now it’s time to move the book to the taxiway. Fire the engines, go over the checklist, adjust where needed, make sure everything is ready. No time for sloppiness or inattention to detail. Everything needs to be in place, in good working order, ready for the next step.

Then, and only then, can it move to the runway. Then, and only then, will it be considered airworthy.

I love the sound of those engines. I feel the need for speed. And I love the excitement over where this flight could take me.

Tray tables stowed, seatbelts buckled, seatbacks in the upright and locked position.

Cleared to taxi.

The Grandkids

We fill our house with grandchildren during the holidays, and inevitably some of the kids (perhaps even most) are at some point coughing and sneezing from allergies or colds or respiratory ailments. We buy tissues by the pallet; the parents—our kids and their spouses—dutifully administer the various medications to their afflicted little charges; breathing-treatment devices and hand-held inhalers are not uncommon sites. Hey, children change environments and climates and often fall ill, at which point they are more likely to share their bugs than their Christmas toys. Since I have a propensity to transform a common cold into full-blown bronchitis, I tend to tread carefully among the ubiquitous hacking and sneezing unless . . .

One of those precious grandkids reaches up to me with an expression of happiness or trust or needed comfort, and then I reach down for them. Instantly; cheerfully; sympathetically. Even amid the bucketloads of snot and drool and the mist of coughing and sneezing, I simply can’t resist. And who could? I’m D-Daddy. I have a role to provide, and I think about that role a lot, and I want to be there to provide it, unless . . .

I feel the sniffles and slight cough beginning to find its way from the submerged to the surface, an annoyance that will eventually morph into something more. It always works that way. Then I know there’s a near certainty that I’ll end up needing a Z-pack and several days of feeling like a bird in an oil spill. I know my own health tendencies, and I know I should keep my distance, unless . . .

One of those grandkids comes crawling into the recliner with me. Those quiet moments are priceless, and I am certain beyond all doubt that I get more from their presence than they do from mine. I always hope the cold will stay just that—a cold—but I know it’s unlikely. Maybe this time I’ll be lucky, unless . . .

The cough deepens. Then I know I’m toast. After the kids have departed, I’ll go to my doctor and get the requisite prescriptions to bring me back to health. And I’ll tell him that I wouldn’t trade the visit with my sick grandkids for the avoidance of his fee. And do you know what he always tells me? He always says, “Good for you.”

And it is good for me.