A Miracle Made My Day

Last Friday, a Miracle touched my book fair. It came in the form of a 6-year-old girl who had just had surgery. Miracle is her name.

I had just completed a 3-day event at the local hospital. The day was slowing down, the hussle and bussle of daytime appointments, daily visitors, and a long work week settled peacefully alongside the setting sun. It had been a good three days of sales. Customers liked the variety and low prices. They bought many gifts for special people…for anniversaries, birthdays, or just to say “I love you.”

As I packed up the unsold merchandise, I noticed a black woman standing nearby at one of the display tables, about three feet away. Her back was turned to me so that all I saw was a head full of long, thin braids trailing down past her shoulders. She was quite short – less than five feet tall, from what I could see. She was the only customer in my vicinity, and I couldn’t tell if she was just passing time or intended to shop.

“The cash register is still on, if you’d like to buy something,” I told her, continuing to clear the table. I wasn’t trying to intrude on her solitude, just convey that I was nearby to help if she needed me. I soon learned that her need was not for salesmanship, but comfort.

“Oh, I’d like to buy something, but I don’t have any money,” she said, adding as she burst into tears, “I’d like to buy something for my niece – she just had surgery.”

I was caught off guard by her crying, yet my spirit leapt to attention. I went to the woman, touched her carefully on the arm, and said, “I’m sorry. Tell me what happened.” It was all she needed to hear, and she shared the details of her anguish.

Her niece was upstairs, just taken back into surgery after an operation earlier in the day. The woman explained that “just yesterday, she had been a flower girl in her uncle’s wedding.” The little girl had sickle cell anemia, and there was a complication from the earlier procedure that had the family worried and upset. They didn’t know what the second surgery meant, and were waiting to hear from the doctor. “I had to come downstairs to get away for a few minutes while we’re waiting,” she explained.

Miracle was the little girl’s name, and her aunt loved her dearly. I asked questions about the family—were there siblings, or was she an only child?

“She has a little sister—Savannah is one year old, and they’re very close,” she said as the tears streamed down her face. “Savannah is a miracle too. Her mother wasn’t supposed to have another baby, and she is perfect, healthy in every way.”

I was moved. And I moved—to the table across the way, where I had a display of white stuffed cats for sale. Cute things. Little girl things that might cheer up a hurting aunt and a sick little girl. I motioned for the woman to come look with me, and I said, “Do you think Miracle would like one of these?” I’d chosen a set of two kittens – one large, one small – thinking one perhaps symbolized the aunt, and the other, the niece.

“Here, this is for Miracle.” I handed the pair to her, said it was hers, no charge, from me.

She smiled a wet smile, exposing broken and cigarette-stained teeth. Gratitude filled her teary eyes, and she thanked me. “This is Miracle and Savannah…two kittens, one big, one small!” And it warmed my heart, no matter her lack of money. I was grateful that I was in a position to do what seemed right.

Yet the woman continued to cry. She seemed inconsolable. What more could I give to her, I thought.

And again my spirit moved. I could pray. No matter that she was a stranger. I should pray. I put my arms around her, rested my chin on the top of her head, and called aloud on Jesus Christ. I asked the Lord to watch over Miracle, to heal her, and prayed that this second surgery would be successful – that it would fix whatever was wrong. I asked for peace for the family. I asked him to protect the little girl. With a perfect stranger, for a first time ever, I was compelled to give of myself in a new way—to pray because it was the only thing I could do—and the only thing that mattered.

Aunt Penny was again grateful. Perhaps she thought of me as a passing angel, but I was the one who’d been blessed. I was the one who was able to turn to someone in need and give something that heretofore I only gave to my family or friends, or at my church. It was the end of my work week, and I was tired. But after hearing of Miracle and her family’s pain, I was energized by being able to reach out to a stranger, listen, and care. I knew it was the Holy Spirit, and it felt good to obey His leading.

After three days of sales, I didn’t care what the dollar figure was. I walked out of the hospital with a glow in my heart—and that was all the pay I needed.

A Miracle had made my day.