Love is a Miracle

I see and feel it every single day.

Emotions crept up my throat. "We never should have left."

Dad gave me the look, "No, you should have. If you had stayed, your Mother and I would have never visited those places. We made memories. That year in Florida was so much damn fun. Don't think that way, okay?"

I nodded. "Yeah." My voice cracked and squeaked.

I heard what Dad said, but the guilt clawing at my heart felt differently.

19 years we'd been away.

We missed birthdays, anniversaries, and funerals.

We visited Sioux Falls every 3-5 years, depending on our financial stability, and quite a few of those years were unsteady.

Sick child.

Bankruptcy.

One income.

Mom and Dad came to us wherever we lived, and we always had a good time. But when we came home, it was incredible.

When we decided to move back after Dad's cancer diagnosis, many pieces had to fit for it to work. Now, it would happen one way or another, but time wasn't on our side. We knew the end game returning home.

"It's Stage 4," Dad said. "Remission isn't in the cards."

"Terminal," I whispered.

We didn't speak the T word for many months after. It was a word that pierced and tore. We pushed it aside and opted for a new word: Miracle.

Many could say we didn't receive our miracle, but I tell you, we did.

The market was unstable. Phil was laid off from his company because we were moving, even though his boss said it wasn't an issue; I had a handful of medical tests and procedures. We didn't know how Dad would tolerate the intense chemo treatments. My grandpa's health took a turn for the worse.

Everything was stacked against us.

One evening, I cried out, "Please, God, you have to help us. Do something. Grandma Buresh, please? Grandma Trigg, I'm begging you. We have to get home."

I'd like to say our house went under contract that night, but it didn't. However, a couple of days later, three people told me stories about the St. Joseph statue. I'd never heard of it; I’m not Catholic, but desperate times, my friend. The tradition of burying a St. Joseph statue on your property dates back hundreds of years to help sell your house. I buried the statue in its cloth near the for sale sign; it was pouring rain, but I didn't care and read the prayer.

Until then, my faith was thinning, but when I prayed over this tiny statue, I put every word, plea, and tear into it.

After 35 days on the market and two days after burying the statue, we had a cash offer from a lovely couple.

Grandpa was over the moon when we had a closing date; he said, "I keep waiting for you to walk through the door."

We tried. God, we tried, but he knew we would be home soon, which comforted him. In our last conversation, he told me he was wearing out, and I knew this was it. I promised him we would be there for Dad.

We said I love you.

Three weeks later, Grandpa passed.

That's the thing about miracles and faith; they're messy and beautiful. They're complex and extraordinary.

Where was the miracle with everything Dad endured in those 11 months?

Time.

Memories.

"I never thought I'd make it to see the flowers bloom. Every day after this is a bonus." Dad said, then sipped his coffee.

That's what Dad showed me—the tiny daily miracles—the appreciation. Even on the bad days, he'd say, "I made it another day. I'll be here in the morning."

Throughout those months, miracles speckled in between the sorrows. We didn't always see them, but they were there.

I see them.

Miracles don't necessarily have to be substantial live-altering events. Dad showed me they are in the ordinary. I'm reconnecting with my family on a separate level than when Dad was here.

It's a bond of love that is evolving.

It's getting to know one another again.

We are re-establishing roots, and at first, it wasn't easy.

How would I feel living in the city where my dad died? Where he suffered, where he was told there was nothing more the doctors could do, where he took his last breath.

Where's the miracle?

The gift?

The blessing?

I’ll tell you, it's where he laughed and played with his siblings and cousins, raised a raucous, and married mom. It's the place he walked me down the aisle; it's where he held his grandson for the first time. It's where he helped Grandpa Bob with lawn work and enjoyed Grandma Betty's Swedish Meatballs. It's where he filled the atmosphere with witty remarks and boisterous laughter. It's where he loved.

It's where he took his final breath.

Every day, I notice those little miracles, whether current or something that stands out from the past months. I know Dad is reminding me, like the shooting star I requested from him.

It happened. It was incredible.

It was from him, and no one can tell me differently.

How life has unfolded over the past couple of years has challenged my faith. It's a journey of discovery. The one thing that remains strong is my belief in my ancestors. My faith in Dad.

"You need to have faith in yourself." Dad would say.

I know. I'm working on it.

But I'm on the right track.

There is much to unpack (weekly therapy sessions for the win). And as far as what is next for me, I don’t know. It’s time for me to be still and not rush. Spend time with my family, be happy, and take in and appreciate the tiny miracles.