Monday, August 16, 2010

Miracles and Guardian Angels

I've been contemplating miracles a bit lately, and, as usual, I am of two minds about it (I may just need to go ahead and give that other me a name, so I can keep the two halves of my mind organized or something.). It appears to me that for everyone who has what could be labeled a miracle, five people or so don't get one, and that would make miracles a bit fickle, which isn't something you want to depend on. And therein lies the problem, as according to the ardent miracle believers, depending on the miracle is the only way to get one. Huh.
Well, I have had a few miracles in my life, one even being kind of nifty. When I was two or three, the family was at the ocean, I was sitting on my dad's shoulders. A wave knocked me off and mom and dad dived frantically trying to find me, but couldn't. A bit later, I blew out a bunch of bubbles (and yes, I can see myself sitting on the ocean floor in my white with navy blue polka-dot, ruffled butt bathing suit, laughing at the stupid antics of my parents) and up I popped, to be rescued by a petrified mom and dad. Miracle one. Miracle two (and this is the nifty one). When I was 13, I'd sit on the floor of my room, scribbling and drawing all over a piece of paper information about my dream house. It was mostly blue inside (carpet, furniture, etc.), was in the country, cost $350 a month, would have at least two bedrooms, and one side of this structure would be glass. A year or so later, dad would decide he wanted to move closer to Florida than he currently was, so we moved to Kingston Springs, Tennessee. I cried a copious amount of tears over this as we moved the day I was to start High School with all my friends, plus my first love was getting left behind, also. The dream house was forgotten, even though I had planned and wished and prayed my brains out for about a year.
When I was 22, I found myself in need of a place to live, Dad was planning a move to Florida, I didn't want to pay for an apartment, so I called a realtor. Told her I wanted a 1 or 2 bedroom place I could afford. She said, I need to show you something... So, hopped in her car, she took me WAY out in the middle of nowhere, on top of this hill in the woods, and there it was... The ugliest house I've ever seen. She said, "Just hang on. See the inside." So, I hung on and there was an unfinished house inside, with 1 bedroom finished, 1 bedroom unfinished, a kitchen, living room, blue carpet, blue furniture, hardwood everything, a beautiful dark blue tile bathroom, unfinished basement, and the entire back wall of the house was glass overlooking a wooded valley. Guess what my house payment was? Yeah. Nifty.
This leads me to think of other parts of my life that may not qualify as miracles, but I may have one of the most overworked Guardian Angels ever. With the first-hand knowledge of what the inside of a loaded gun barrel looks like, with the machetes, knives, fists, CARS, stalkers, etc. going on through a large portion of my life, how can I possibly be not dead? So, Guardian Angel guy? Thanks. And really, how many of you have been attacked with a car? The stuff I get into.

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