The Miracle

Christmas is fast approaching, and our family prepares for another magical holiday surrounded by loved ones.  I love Christmas.  It is by far my favourite time of year.  As it is with most parents, watching my kids on Christmas morning brings back so many memories of my own childhood, and in many ways it’s like getting a chance to experience it all over again.

Being a heart-Dad has certainly amplified my Christmas experience over the last several years, mostly for the better.  The new perspective makes me very thankful for our many blessings, and a stronger faith makes this time of year very peaceful, even amidst the holiday chaos we all deal with.

Two of Alexander’s major surgeries happened in the fall, and he was released from hospital in the weeks leading up to Christmas.  I remember feeling so relieved.  Being home with Sydney, our family whole again, and with the holidays approaching were some of the happiest times in my life.  To be blessed with a son we weren’t sure would see his first Christmas, now making a Santa list for Christmas number seven is surely a miracle, after all.

There is, however, another side to being a heart-Dad at Christmas.  It’s a perspective gained from being part of a community of heart parents, and getting to know the families of the little angels who saw too few Christmases.  It’s a stocking left out Christmas Eve in memory, but which remains unfilled Christmas morning.  It’s a small family gathered around a tiny tree, fully decorated and standing proud over a memorial plaque.  In those moments of reflection, it’s not even about the fear of what could happen, it’s only the gravity of their loss that’s so overwhelming.  I don’t know if those families realize how much we think of them.  I should probably tell them more.

I still love Christmas, more now than ever.  Our family will once again gather and share in the magic of the season.  We’ll eat too much, we’ll laugh, we’ll play, and we’ll take for granted all the things we probably shouldn’t.

There will be a moment though, during the silent night between when the kids go to sleep, and Santa’s annual visit, that will be reserved for the angels gone too soon, and their families, for whom Christmas will never quite be the same.  We’ll light a candle, and be thankful for the miracle that was their lives, and for how our lives are forever changed because of them.

“Daddy, what’s a miracle?” you asked me in a dream.
You sat upon my shoulders, as we walked beside the sea.
“It’s funny you should ask me that…” I told you with a smile.
…”I haven’t thought of miracles at all, for quite a while.”
We walked a little further, while I thought of what you said,
my hands around your ankles, your hands upon my head.
“I’ll try my best to answer…” I finally replied,
“…but miracles are different for each of us inside.”

“Some would say a rainbow, that arcs across the sky.
A flowers’ bloom, a baby’s smile, the twinkle of an eye.
Some would say an act of God, which cannot be explained.
Some would say the storm clouds that bring the desert rain.”
I thought about your question, and what we had discussed.
“Maybe you are asking, ‘what’s a miracle to us’?”

“Our miracle was waking, when the birds began to sing.
Those lazy cartoon mornings, when we didn’t do a thing.
Our miracle was mid-day, in the sun that shone so bright,
and all the afternoons we played, and ran with pure delight.
Our miracle was evening walks, as stars would slowly peek.
Our miracle was night time, when I used to watch you sleep.”

I realized I’d stopped walking, and it was then I knew.
“My miracle was every day I got to spend with you”.
We stood in silence, then you said “Please Daddy, don’t be sad…”
“…Don’t live within the time we lost; remember what we had.”
We looked to the horizon; I hugged your legs so close.
“Please stay with me a while, son, don’t leave me here alone.”
You walked with me till morning, though I lay there in my bed,
my hands around your ankles, your hands upon my head.