Remembering the Miracle

It was a miracle.

Later, I learned that there is such a thing as "round pneumonia," a type of pneumonia that looks very like lung cancer, but isn't, and this is what, it seems, my father had.  My dad is 63 now, and his lungs are free and fine.  He and my mother are divorced.  He is sober, and he seeks the truth in a web of mealy-mouthed fears and stalwart lies, and he tries to speak to me of what he finds.  His memory often differs from mine, and I pop up in his stories and peer around, the landscape almost -- not-quite -- recognizable.  He is alive.  Today, he is alive.

That is one of a number of stories I have about miracles and mysteries.  It is a small, diverse, personal collection.  I keep them, like shiny stones in a box under my bed.  I turn them over in my hands and I do not know their meanings, but they are mine, beautiful and strange against my palms.  There is so much that is uncertain, so much that may or may not be true, so much that sinks and grows in the cultivating medium of my mind, changing perhaps beyond all recognition.  But there they are, nonetheless.  I can touch them.  I can hold them out to you.  Tell me what you see?

I'll show you mine, if you show me yours.


Rebecca Lynne Fullan lives in New York City.  She is a contributor to  She regularly does a tightrope act stretched between trust and fear, and perhaps this is a miracle in and of itself.

4/13/2010 4:00:00 AM
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