Miracles should not be regarded as deviations from the ordinary course of nature so much as manifestations of divine or spiritual power. Some lower law was in each case superseded by the action of a higher. ... Miracles were and are a response to faith and its best encouragement. They were never wrought without prayer, felt need, and faith. (Bible Dictionary; Miracles)
Let's start from the beginning. Forgive the chronological report.
January:
We decide we are interested in moving to Rochester earlier than August (1) so we can be settled before the baby comes, and (2) so I can work a more lucrative job in those preceding months. Opportunities that previously seemed promising fall through and we find ourselves back at square one: praying for a job that fits our unique circumstances. We can't move without a job.
A small prompting comes repeatedly over a weekend: Ask the temple shift coordinator if she knows of any work opportunities in the Rochester area. She responds to my email. She doesn't have a lot to offer me, but she knows of a home care company that is owned by members of the church. A visit to this website reveals that I already know the owner, so I contact him seeking more detailed information about what his company does so I can decide if it is a good fit.
What happens next leaves me speechless. The job would be simple, flexible and meaningful - caring for an elderly woman in her home. I would be able to start in February. And then a personal and generous offer: If it would help us financially, we could live in a small cabin on his personal property - for free. Furthermore, I can help his wife homeschool his children as a second part time job. All of this would be located in Canandaigua, in between Seneca Falls and Rochester, cutting a foreseen commute in half. My jaw drops.
He insists I think about it first and wait to thank him because there is a downside: the cabin is small, and it has no running water. Well, I've done small, and I think Marty and I can be creative about the lack of running water. My wheels start turning as our budget starts hypothetically shifting in drastic ways. That week we visit the cabin. I fall in love. Situated on 15 1/2 acres of healing land, the cabin feels like a haven full of creative potential. We accept the offer. Marty finds a classmate to take over our freshly signed 12-month contract in Seneca Falls, and we find ourselves once again packing boxes.
February:
The beginning of the month is both beautiful and miraculous. I am generously flown to Texas to be with a dear friend while she delivers her last baby. Those details are not mine to share, but my faith is strengthened and my hope restored. It is only hard because I am away from Marty, but the western sky is a basket of brightness. My sunny trip lasts eleven days.
I land in Rochester late on Saturday night. My husband and mother in law pick me up and we drive home slowly in east coast winds that dust the roads with snow. By "home," I mean the cabin. This would be our first night there. We push aside stacks of boxes and pull our mattress off the box spring because directly in front of the wood pellet stove is the only place warm enough to sleep - for three hours. I pee in a plastic bowl in the middle of the night, and I only spill a little. Don't tell.
My angel mother-in-law works tirelessly with us all the next day, and after 48 hours, the cabin is coming together. We're enjoying the creativity required for small spaces and the heat is now staying inside. It feels cozy and simple.
Day three in the cabin is when things start going downhill. Catching four mice in our first 24 hours was kind of funny, but not catching any number of mice in any of the following hours isn't. I listen to them scuttle through my walls. I wake up at every sound, not sure if I'm hearing the wood stove cycle through pellets or if there is a rodent in my room. They thrash around the kitchen until they unstick themselves from the traps and continue crawling in places I can only image. They eat the peanut butter off the traps and still escape. Every evening we wash every dish, sweep every crumb, and wipe every surface. And every morning, my kitchen is covered in mouse poop. In the sink. Under the toaster oven. On the drying rack. In our clean, stacked pots and dishes. In the supplement box. In empty drawers. And everywhere in between. They chew through the rubber stop of my rice cooker. They eat my favorite rubber spatula. They somehow get inside my clean, empty 13-gallon garbage can.
I stop eating at night. I only eat fruit in the morning. I leave all afternoon and live at the library because I can't handle being alone with the pests. I eat dinner with Marty only because he makes it. What's more, I stop exercising. I try doing yoga one afternoon and finally recognize what I've been smelling: cat urine. The frozen air hid the smell of the animal who inhabited the cabin immediately before us, but now that the carpet has warmed up, I smell it everywhere. I light candles every time I have to be in the cabin, but the mixture of scents don't help much with nausea.
Each day is just a conglomeration of small moments. But the small moments combined with my motherly instincts and my pregnant hormones eventually culminate in the largest breakdown I've had to date. I can't live like this. It's the 21st century. I'm having a baby. I can't have a child in these conditions. I can't even function. I can't eat. I can't sleep. I'm desperately trying to stay on top of my online coursework with internet access from the public library twenty minutes away. I hate going home. I can't even call it home. My haven has become my hell. I feel like I'm living Maslow's hierarchy of needs. I'm sobbing in my car. Hyperventilating. I feel dizzy. I try talking to myself, and I can't calm myself down. I have an intense impulse to call my mom but know that my hysterical state will cause her more distress than she would ever know how to handle. I pull over because my physiological state is clearly unsafe. In the swirling snow and concentrated darkness, I search my jumbled mind for any sort of coping strategy, but I don't know how to cope. I can't comfort myself because in my mind there is no end, no solution. How can I ask my husband to move us again, less than one week after he sacrificed everything to get us here - while I was sunbathing in Texas?
I eventually decide to call Marty because my heart knows he would want me to talk to him before anyone else considering my extreme state. As the phone is ringing, I get stuck in our long and icy driveway in a vehicle that isn't mine. It's dark, and I'm alone. Marty is not coming home tonight because he won't be finished at the school until 9:30, and he works the next morning at 5:45. We'll just end the story there. It was a rough night.
Sometime in the next 48 hours, Marty asks me if I want to move. I admit that sometimes I do. By the end of the week, he knows we can't stay, if only for my physical and psychological health. But how? He has already missed too much school. We are both working two or three jobs. We are in a new area and know virtually no one who can help us. And even if we scrap together time and strength, who has ever heard of an apartment opening this time of year and available at last minute's notice? We decide to hope for a miracle. My parents are visiting in one week. If we can find a place by then, we know they will help us move. Marty leaves to a chiropractic conference in Washington D.C., and I drive five hours to his sister's house because Lord knows I can't be alone in that cabin for four days. We both apartment shop online between his meetings and my final exams.
Every phone call and email is the same: Do you have a unit that we could move into by March 4th? Yes - I mean one week away. Yes - mean six days away. It's the weekend, and offices aren't open. I'm back from my sister-in-law's and living out of my landlord's home office. Still trying. Do you by chance have a unit we could move into this weekend? Now it's Tuesday. Three days until our mercy window of time...
March:
We find one. Actually, I find it. I show up for my appointment at 9am, but office door is locked. The lady quit that morning, and some scruffy maintenance guy with a major smoking problem shows up 15 minutes late to give me a tour of a unit. I leave and swear it's not the place. But I end up going back later that afternoon. I fill out an application. Marty is eventually back in town (because we've been spending half the week living in two different towns due to our having only one car) and he signs the contract before he even sees the place. We get the keys on Thursday night, just hours before my family lands in Rochester.
Suddenly the physical and emotional resources needed for a move like this more than double. While the boys haul carloads from one end of town to another, my mom scrubs, sanitizes and organizes every kitchen item we own. I cry every time I walk in the vicinity because I've never felt so dependent or so grateful. I'm not allowed in the kitchen anymore, so I sort clothes in our new bedroom. Grant has a redshirt tournament in Ohio, only 3 1/2 hours away. After a refreshing weekend road trip and a late-night stop at the grocery store, my fridge is full of food and my heart is swollen with appreciation. We have a home.
The tender mercies don't stop there. The following week is still incredibly difficult. One car, two schools, and three jobs leave Marty and me completely dependent on others. But angels are everywhere. Study partners, carpools, beds, and meals are all provided for us in times of need. People help me find more students to tutor and teach so I can gradually start working from home. Our new neighbor offers us their piano. And best of all, the sun comes out.
It is a miracle.
Most of you were not physically present for any of this. But each of you was spiritually and emotionally supportive. Perhaps that is why I feel this incessant need to share my month of miracles. The pace of survival left no spare time for chatting in between, but I tell you - I could not have done it without you. The power of faith and of prayer - of your faith and prayer - has become undeniably absolute.
I've wondered about miracles. I guess this is, in the most uncontrived way, my personal witness of them. I can't say I have ever had so many back-to-back manifestations of God's divine power in response to such an intense felt need while simultaneously being supported by your constant encouragement of faith.
Thank you.
