OF MIRACLES MAJOR AND MINOR

Maybe we're all entitled to one major miracle in our lifetime. Some people may even be the recipients of more than one miracle, at least of the minor sort. And then again maybe not. I certainly wasn't. At least that's how I felt.

Who could blame me after everything that had gone wrong in the last few months?

I had been called away from my live-in job to care for my father after he suffered a series of strokes. Watching the man who had loved, supported and advised me with such strength of character become weak and incapacitated ate holes in my self-esteem. His death broke my heart and my faith in the goodness of life began to leach away.

Before returning back to the job that I called home, I was sent to stay with a cousin who was dying from a malignant brain tumor. Her disordered rambling unseated my belief in the security of saneness and her death further drained me.

Just as I believed it wasn't possible to become more sorrowful, my sister was diagnosed with cancer, and once again I was assigned the task of watching a loved one die. Despite the unfairness of her pain and impending death, she maintained her faith. Not so for me. At night I wept bitter tears into the fur of her elderly dog's neck; how could this happen again?

After my sister died, I received special permission to bring the dog back to live with me in my working home. But even this small comfort was denied, when ten days later, the dog had a heart attack and followed my sister to...

To where? Where had my loved ones gone? Were they really in a better place? Did they still exist in some joyful, spiritual afterlife? Or were they just dead, lost to me forever? Once so convinced of heaven, soul and God, I realized I no longer knew for certain if they even existed.

Until I could resolve the doubts that had begun to assault my serenity, I requested re-assignment to less emotionally taxing duties. The next day I was sent to assist a teenage couple struggling to care for themselves and two young babies. Their home, little more than a shed, was old and run down, except for a fresh coat of sky-blue paint. Their home sat in a field of garbage, rusty car parts and uncut weeds, that seemed to choke the humanity out of its inhabitants.

A dilapidated dog house rested in the center of this field of broken dreams. Fastened on a six-foot chain to the pile of rotten boards he was forced to call home, was a fuzzy, sad-looking dog of indeterminate color. Day after day the dog stood morosely in the field watching the house. He was fed only once or twice weekly, and on most days his water bucket was empty.

During my visits, I added the chore of supplying food and water to the family's neglected canine. The owner, who bragged he'd bought the dog for a six-pack of beer and a broken gun rack, said, "I'm tryin' to mean 'im up some so's he can be our guard dog. His momma wuz a fightin' dog until she done got herself knocked up. Kinda like my old lady. And just like her, I gotta remind 'im that I'm the boss around here. Just kick 'em both and punch 'em a few times when they deserves it. Keeps 'em in line. So don't you go feedin' 'im and bein' nice to 'im 'cause it won't do no good."

At the end of his explanation, the dog let out a series of warning barks, just as neighbors cut through the owner's field. Enraged, the owner screamed, "Dog, shut up." The dog barked again in confusion and the owner seized him by the fur and shook Dog until he yelped. I begged him to quit, but this only made the owner react more violently. Unable to stop or watch this horrifying sight, I went into the house and finished my work.

At last the owner stopped his tirade. I went outside and confronted him about his behavior, demanding that he stop abusing his dog. My pleas fell on deaf ears. The owner’s only response was to threaten to teach me a lesson and have me fired if I interfered.

Despite his threats and the "I Shoot Trespassers" sign, despite the possible consequences, I went to the quivering, bleeding dog and unfastened him. I swept him into my arms, dropped my last dollars on the ground where he had lain and placed him into the car without looking back.

At the animal clinic, the veterinarian who treated, vaccinated and wormed him, didn't offer much hope of a full recovery for the dog. X-rays revealed damage from previous abuse, including partial blindness in both eyes. Fearing, like my last three encounters, the dog was beyond help, I asked the vet to try something, anything, regardless of the cost. The vet gave me medication to try and reduce the swelling in Dog's head around his eyes, which could eventually restore some of his sight.

As I loaded the dog back into the car, I started to sob. Why would someone hurt a helpless animal? And why did everyone I love, even this poor dog, have to suffer so much? How could a compassionate creator allow his creatures, myself included, to experience such pain, such loss? Where was God in all of this misery? Plagued with doubts, I dared God to answer, but heard only silence.

With this final collapse of faith, I reached a threshold. It was time to move on and let go of the work I had once cherished but no longer had the beliefs or inspiration to carry out. When I returned to the office, I packed my limited belongings and placed a note on the desk by the door. There was nothing left to do but take the dog and walk away. I didn't know where we would go, or what I would do. In my anguish, I could not see beyond the moment.

As I hiked down the long drive to the road, I poured out my troubles to the dog. No matter, what I said, he listened, looking up as if he could clearly see me, as well as the solution to my dilemma. Regardless of how I complained, his face remained turned towards me with complete attention and concern.

It dawned on me that in my fit of self-pity I had thoughtlessly forgotten to take care of his needs. Knowing he must be exhausted after the upheavals of the day, we paused to rest beside a tranquil pond under the shelter of a fragrant grove of evergreens. In spite of his abusive experiences with people, the dog cuddled next to me in trusting companionship. He had been saved and was regaining his sight; he'd had his miracle - or miracles. Where were mine?

"I guess we should pick a real name for you Dog, but that's the least of our problems," I continued my sad discourse, "Without my family, without my work or income, without my faith, I am lost. I'm glad you're here with me, but where is God?"

Once again I looked at him, really looked him in the eyes. I gasped and put a hand over my open mouth. A sense of inner peace begin to grow inside of me. I looked away, then back into his eyes again and shining there, were love, acceptance, forgiveness, compassion, hope and joy. Like the blind man whose sight had been restored, I could see the face of God reflected in the eyes of a dog.

"Thank you," I prayed, "Thank you for this dog. Thank you for events that led me to this moment. Thank you for restoring me to wholeness. For these miracles, I give thanks." At once I knew that the dog's name had to mean, "sent from God," the same as the pool where the blind man received his vision.

With a mind free of doubt, I knew it was time to return to my work with a renewed commitment. I turned and walked through the gates of All Saints, announcing on the intercom, "Sister Hildegard, it's Sister Julian. Siloam and I are back."