"I Want To Buy A Miracle."

I Want To Buy A Miracle is one of my favorite stories that I've shared with my children over the years.  It was written anonymously and there was much controversy whether it was fact or fiction.  In my perspective that isn't important; rather, it's the message and the impact that it has on the reader.  The story is crystal clear; we are the miracles that happen in the lives of others.  No matter how great or small the gift... it still counts as a miracle to those in need.   

This Christmas my niece challenge everyone on facebook to give of themselves; pay it forward, so to speak.  I was looking for ways to emulate her request and had no idea the sweetness that I was about to experience. 

Later that day a friend of mine stopped by the house and she had been working out in the rain in a light weight jacket.  She was soaked to the bone!  I took off her jacket to throw it in my dryer and noticed she was shivering uncontrollably.   I went to my closet, pulled out my grey wool coat and asked her to please put it on.   It fit like a glove.  "I want you to have this coat."  I said as I buttoned the front snugly around her little frame.  The tears welled up in her eyes and at first she declined, but I assured her that it was meant to be and I would be honored if she would keep it.    

After she left my home that day, I was filled with the kind of warmth that a coat or warm fire cannot provide.  The feeling was much deeper and more glorious than the noon day sun.  I realized that I was the one that had received the greatest gift that day!

This story  is the perfect example of the difference one person made in the lives of many, through acts of kindness.  Each person can do their part according to their ability to give.   No matter how great or small the gift, it's magnificent to the receiver!  

'I Want To Buy A Miracle.'

A little girl went to her bedroom and pulled a glass jelly jar from its hiding place in the closet.  She poured the change out on the floor and counted it carefully.  Three times, even.  The total had to be exactly perfect.  No chance here for mistakes, carefully placing the coins back in the jar and twisting on the cap, she slipped out the back door and made her way 6 blocks to Rexall's Drug Store with the big red Indian Chief sign above the door. 

She waited patiently for the pharmacist to give her some attention but he was too busy at this moment.  Tess twisted her feet to make a scuffing noise, nothing!  She cleared her throat with the most disgusting sound she could muster, no good.  Finally, she took a quarter from her jar and banged it on the glass counter. That did it! 

"And what do you want?" the pharmacist asked in an annoyed tone of voice.  I'm talking to my brother from Chicago whom I haven't seen in ages," he said without waiting for a reply to his question.  "Well, I want to talk to you about my brother,"  Tess answered back in the same annoyed tone.  "He's really, really sick... and I want to buy miracle."

"I beg your pardon?" said the pharmacist." His name is Andrew and he has something bad growing inside his head and my Daddy says only a miracle can save him now.  So how much does a miracle cost?"  "We don't sell miracles here, little girl. I'm sorry but I can't help you," the pharmacist said, softening a little.  "Listen, I have the money to pay for it. If it isn't enough, I will get the rest. Just tell me how much it costs." 

The pharmacist's brother was a well dressed man.  He stooped down and asked the little girl, "What kind of a miracle does your brother need?"  "I don't know," Tess replied with her eyes welling up.  I just know he's really sick and Mommy says he needs an operation, but my Daddy can't pay for it, so I want to use my money."  "How much do you have?" asked the man from Chicago.  "One dollar and eleven cents," Tess answered barely audibly.  "And it's all the money I have, but I can get some more if I need to."  "Well, what a coincidence," smiled the man.  "A dollar and eleven cents -- the exact price of a miracle for little brothers." 

He took her money in one hand and with the other hand he grasped her mitten and said, "Take me to where you live.  I want to see your brother and meet your parents.  Let's see if I have the miracle you need." 

That well dressed man was Dr. Carlton Armstrong, a surgeon, specializing in neuro-surgery.  The operation was completed free of charge and it wasn't long until Andrew was home again and doing well. Mom and Dad were happily talking about the chain of events that had led them to this place. 

That surgery," her Mom whispered. "was a real miracle. I wonder how much it would have cost?" Tess smiled.  She knew exactly how much a miracle cost...one dollar and eleven cents ... plus the faith of a little child.

We may never know how many miracles are needed by those who surround us, but if we are intuitive to the needs of others, they will manifest.  A miracle is not the suspension of natural laws; rather, the actions of higher laws.  I challenge everyone who reads this post today to change the way you look at others.  The challenge is to use your eyes to see farther than the end of your nose, your hands to reach out in service, your arms to cradle the weary, your mind to be free from any judgements, and your heart to guide the way.  For are we not all one...  by Linda Urza, One Fine Day.

GIFTED

The gifts I would give to my friends and loved ones this New Year would come from the heart and be so genuine and impressionable that renewed life would spring forth from a weary soul.  My gifts would not come in a package with a bow, for they would need no presentation, but they would come sweetly from my heart to yours.  

The first gift I would give is my example of FAITH.  To "believe" in things that are not seen, yet are manifest in the pure in heart through faith.  For a believer no explanation is necessary and for a non believer no explanation is possible!  Faith is the foundation of eternal life.

The second gift I would give is that of UNCONDITIONAL LOVE.  "To truly love someone... not for what they have done in the past or for what they may become in the future, but for who they are today.”

The third gift I would give is that of CHARITY.  This precious gift can heal the gapping wounds of the broken hearted and change a world of pain and sorrow into heaven on earth. 

The fourth gift I would give is that of HOPE.  Hope builds dreams, and dreams are what make little boys want to grow up to become men and little girls believe in the miracles of tomorrow.  

The fifth gift I would give is that of GOODNESS.  When you do good, you get good, and you feel good!  The greatest counsel my parents ever gave me when I was a little girl was "to be good.”  Goodness produces “great” and the world is in need of great men and women!

The sixth gift that I would give is that of FORGIVENESS.  Those who truly understand the power of forgiveness are those who emulate peace and harmony throughout the world.  Forgiveness will melt a heart of ice and break down walls of stone.

The seventh gift I would give is that of PATIENCE.  Patience teaches that everything comes gradually and at it’s appointed hour.  Patience is the center of unconditional love.

The eighth gift that I would give is that of FRIENDSHIP.  There is no greater companion in this world than a true friend.  A true friend is one who wants the very best for you.   They want to see you succeed above your own expectations and strive to push you to the very top, only to celebrate your glory as though it were their own.

The ninth gift that I give is that of PEACE.  Those who have attained peace in the middle of the storm will usher in the millennium.  The peacemakers are the meek and mild who shall inherit the earth.  

The tenth gift that I would give is that of ETERNAL LIFE, but this gift was already given by the Messiah, who made it possible for all the other gifts to be given and to Him I am grateful!

May 2011 bring the blessings of Heaven. 

by, Linda Sumner Urza, One Fine Day

Cipher in the Snow.

A True Story

It started with tragedy on a biting cold February morning. I was driving behind the Milford Corners bus as I did most snowy mornings on my way to school. The bus veered and stopped short at the hotel, which it had no business doing, and I was annoyed as I had to come to an unexpected stop. The boy lurched out of the bus, reeled, stumbled, and collapsed on the snow bank at the curb. The bus driver and I reached him at the same moment. The boy’s thin, hollow face was white even against the snow.

"He's dead," the driver whispered.  

It didn't register for a minute. I glanced quickly at the scared young faces staring down at us from the school bus. 

"A doctor! Quick! I'll phone from the hotel . . ." 

"No use, I tell you, he's dead." The driver looked down at the boy's still form. 

"He never even said he felt bad," he muttered. "Just tapped me on the shoulder and said, real quiet, 'I'm sorry. I have to get off at the hotel.' That's all. Polite and apologizing like."

At school the giggling, shuffling morning noise quieted as news went down the halls. I passed a huddle of girls. "Who was it? Who dropped dead on the way to school?" I heard one of them half-whisper. "Don't know his name. Some kid from Milford Corners," was the reply. It was like that in the faculty room and the principal's office. 

"I'd appreciate your going out to tell the parents," the principal told me. 

"They haven't a phone, and anyway, somebody from the school should go there in person. I'll cover your classes." 

"Why me?" I asked. "Wouldn't it be better if you did it?" 

"I didn't know the boy," the principal admitted levelly. "And in last year's sophomore personalities column I noted that you were listed as his favorite teacher."

I drove through the snow and cold down the bad canyon road to the Evans' place and thought about the boy, Cliff Evans. His favorite teacher! I thought. He hasn't spoken two words to me in two years! I could see him in my mind's eye all right, sitting back there in the last seat in my afternoon literature class. He came in the room by himself and left by himself. "Cliff Evans," I muttered to myself, "a boy who never talked." I thought a minute. "A boy who never smiled. I never saw him smile once."

The big ranch kitchen was clean and warm. I blurted out my news somehow. Mrs. Evans reached blindly toward a chair. 

"He never said anything about bein' ailing." His stepfather snorted. "He ain't said nothin' about anything since I moved in here." 

Mrs. Evans pushed a pan to the back of the stove and began to untie her apron. 

"Now hold on," her husband snapped. "I got to have breakfast before I go to town. Nothin' we can do now, anyway. If Cliff hadn't been so dumb, he'd have told us he didn't feel good."

After school I sat in the office and stared blankly at the records spread out before me. I was to read the file and write the obituary for the school paper. The almost bare sheets mocked the effort. Cliff Evans, white, never legally adopted by stepfather, five young half-brothers and sisters. These meager strands of information and the list of "D" grades were all the records had to offer.

Cliff Evans had silently come in the school door in the mornings and gone out the school door in the evenings, and that was all. He had never belonged to a club. He had never played on a team. He had never held an office. As far as I could tell, he had never done one happy, noisy kid thing. He had never been anybody at all.

How do you go about making a boy into a zero? The grade-school records showed me. The first and second grade teachers' annotations read, "Sweet, shy child," "timid but eager." Then the third grade note had opened the attack. Some teacher had written in a good, firm hand, "Cliff won't talk. Uncooperative. Slow learner." The other academic sheep and followed with "dull," "slow-witted," "low I.Q." They became correct. The boy's I.Q score in the ninth grade was listed at 83. But his I.Q. in the third grade had been 106. The score didn't go under 100 until the seventh grade. Even the shy, timid, sweet children have resilience. It takes time to break them.

I stomped to the typewriter and wrote a savage report pointing out what education had done to Cliff Evans. I slapped a copy on the principal's desk and another in the sad, dog-eared file. I banged the typewriter and slammed the file and crashed the door shut, but I didn't feel much better. A little boy kept walking after me, a little boy with a peaked, pale face; a skinny body in faded jeans; and big eyes that had looked and searched for a long time and then had become veiled.

I could guess how many times he had been chosen last to play sides in a game, how many whispered child conversations had excluded him, how many times he hadn't been asked. I could see and hear the faces that said over and over, "You're nothing, Cliff Evans."

A child is a believing creature. Cliff undoubtedly believed them. Suddenly it seemed clear to me. When finally there was nothing left at all for Cliff Evans, he collapsed on a snow bank and went away. The doctor might list "heart failure" as the cause of death, but that wouldn't change my mind.

We couldn't find ten students in the school who had known Cliff well enough to attend the funeral as his friends. So the student body officers and a committee from the junior class went as a group to the church, being politely sad. I attended the services with them, and sat through it with a lump of cold lead in my chest and a big resolve growing through me.

I've never forgotten Cliff Evans nor that resolve. He has been my challenge year after year, class after class. I look for veiled eyes or bodies scrounged into a seat in an alien world. "Look, kids," I say silently. "I may not do anything else for you this year, but not one of you is going to come out of here as a nobody. I'll work or fight to the bitter end doing battle with society and the school board, but I won't have one of you coming out of there thinking himself a zero."

Most of the time -- not always, but most of the time -- I've succeeded.

(This true story was written by Jean Mizer, a teacher and guidance counselor from Idaho.  I have had this story for 30 years and still cry each time I read it and ponder over the fact that a child died from loneliness.)