Miracle # 1
I believe in miracles. I don't talk about it much. It seems personal in a way, to have the Spirit move in your life in such a way that you feel like you've witnessed the hand of God at work. But, that's what telling the good news is about, isn't it? This isn't really the story of the first miracle of my life--the first was my birth, but I don't remember that so we'll jump ahead.
Grandma Pearlie got sick; like really sick. I was in sixth grade (or was it fifth?). Pearlie was diabetic and for as long as I could remember she'd been sticking her finger with a needle several times a day, squeezing that dark red dot onto a thin strip and sliding it into a little computer that blinked back a number at her. Then she'd give herself some insulin and go about her way. Most days it was pretty good. One day, it showed low numbers--maybe it was for a few days, I can't remember. Anyway, Pearlie drank some orange juice to bring her sugar up. The problem was, instead of her sugar levels being low, they were actually really high. Her strips had gone bad and gave her inaccurate readings. She had a stroke. She went into a coma.
I don't remember what hour of the day or night it was when it happened. But I do remember my mama going into her room and finding her on the bed and saying, "Mama, Mama!" trying to get her to wake up. As a young child, even though I was as shielded from it as I could have been- it was scary. The ambulance was called. We spent hours, days, weeks at her bedside in the hospital. Mama tried to talk to me about it. To prepare me for the fact that she wouldn't wake up. That she would pass away from this world into the next where she would be with her three other sons and her husband who "went before her." Then as the days turned to weeks the family began to joke that Pearlie was "too ornery to die." That sounds terrible, but it was said with love and a smile to reflect on her tough skin and tenacity. I began to think that maybe we could put my dark colored dress and shoes back in the closet. She should have died. But she hadn't yet....and so I believed in something greater than us at work. The God she'd taken me to church to learn about.
While Pearlie was hospitalized, I spent the afternoons after school with those beloved neighbors I told you about: Margaret & Kyle and Kent and Barbara. I got on and off the school bus from their house. I was even closer to Whitney's grandpa's house so we could still hang out in the afternoons. Margaret and Kyle always had treats for me. I'd go into their kitchen, all the windows would be open and Kyle would have the Altavista Journal spread across his red marble looking table top. Margaret, in her flowered house dress would be clipping coupons. I'd wander across the yard back to Kent and Barbara's. Kent was a taxidermist. He had a constant twinkle in his eye and two moods if I remember--he'd be laughing and joking or all fired up about something. Not in an angry tone but in a way that you knew he was serious about what he was saying. If it was cold, Kent would have the wood stove burning in his shed where he worked. There were mounts sitting all around and all manner of animal hides waiting to be dressed. He had a black cat named Malcolm X who followed him everywhere. Malcolm's tail was slightly bent because he'd gotten too close to the wood stove several times. Malcolm's mama cat, lovingly named "Mama" blessed Pocket Rd with a litter of kittens twice a year. All my cats growing up were from Mama. Aggador Spartacus is probably her last living offspring still lives a cushy life with my parents in Bedford. He's about 16 years old. Anyway, her kittens were often running around out back and I'd go spend the afternoon playing with them. Barbara was always kind, welcoming me into her home and calling me, "baby girl".
I'll tell you another side story about Kent and Barbara that I'll never forget. They had a copper head snake in an aquarium in their living room. His name was Slick Willy. This was in the Clinton days. Well one night, late in the evening we got a call at home. They said, "Slick Willy had babies and they got out of the breathing holes of the aquarium and they are all over the house!" HA! I am pretty sure I stayed at home in the bed and Daddy and Mama went over there to help them. Slick had a name change "Slick Hilary" and got sent back out into the wild.
Pearlie was a miracle you see, because in time, she woke up. She was awake and she could talk and eat. She had to learn to walk again if I remember. And she was never quite strong enough after that to really get back into good shape. She walked with a walker but spent most of her time in a wheelchair. We put our dark clothes back in the closest. Pearlie went into assisted living for a time. And then it was decided for certain that she could not be on her own and she would come and live with us. Pearlie lived another 9 or 10 years. Those were not always rosy times. As I got older I didn't want to listen to Pearlie anymore. I certainly couldn't be bothered to help around the house even though Mama was doing everything. But what a gift God gave us--more time to hear her stories. More time to watch the Atlanta Braves play baseball. More time for me to tell her about high school and graduation. More time to show her pictures of Hollins and introduce her to Michael.
Now that I am older I see again that there were lots of miracles. The miracle of Pearlie, the miracle of family and of friends. How lucky.
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