Misunderstood Miracles

Next to Desperation

He was gone. Her mother was rejoicing. Weeping, as if Mairi would – could – return like a prodigal child. But she wasn’t sure if she had the courage to face her mistakes. She had made so many. Wasn’t there a certain point in life where amends became impossible?

And yet, between all of this, she could find no reason not to keep the baby. Finally, a miracle that was hers, and only hers, and that couldn’t go wrong. But somehow the knowledge made things worse. It would always be a reminder, this child, of Kennan and the broken mirror and the beginning and end of the things that had transpired between them.

Mairi was torn. She was tired of grieving for a boy that had taken love and twisted it around. She was tired of blaming Kennan; hadn’t she, in falling into him, made the same mistakes? Unsure if she even believed in miracles anymore, or if she was ready to make any sort of decision beyond keeping herself alive, she had made it to the waiting room.

The chair beneath her was plastic, hard and uncomfortable, and the air was cold. Dread choked her; doubt consumed her thoughts. It wasn’t a matter of choices, not at this point. It was a matter of elimination, of having nothing left but this one, miraculous thing, which was tied to these other things that were not miraculous, but rather detrimental.

Rolling her head to the side, trying to avoid looking at the door that she would disappear through and come back missing something, she saw an unusual group outside the window. Dancers. Silent, mournful, wearing white shirts and black stretch pants, headphone cords swinging with each drawn-out, elegant movement. Swans of an alternate universe, about ten in all, spinning to an unheard rhythmic beat outside the clinic.

The timing was strange; the sight, even stranger. They reminded her of ghosts, beautiful, transparent, fleeting. She wondered if the child inside of her would be a ghost. Consigned to wander the earth. Almost without realizing it she had risen, and was standing close to the glass, watching as a wrenching, silent masquerade unfolded, speaking to her in a way that felt familiar; it touched a nerve inside of her that had been repressed.

This was her answer: redemption, no matter how deep the scar, could carry her past the choices she had made and the reality of what Kennan had left her with. Up until she turned eighteen, she had believed in a God that was mighty, powerful, and awe-inspiring. And somehow she had banished this belief, because she had wanted to take her own path, strike out in life to make her own mistakes, govern herself by her own authority.

But on a December afternoon, God had sent Mairi a message – a clear visual of the grace and beauty of the redemption he offered her. And this miracle – she had misunderstood it.

The baby inside of her was a miracle, but it was not the one that she had wished for, that would shake her entire perspective of things. The miracle was that for once in her life, Mairi was going to make a decision. The future was her blank canvas, there was no ruining it, and she was given this little bit of grace: freedom from the very love that she had thought would set her free.

And mercy: a reminder, of no matter how desperate the mistake, there was a blessing that lingered; hard to see, hard to accept, but it was enough.