If You Believe In Magic, Expect Miracles to Follow

 

Miracles work their magic in wondrous ways - believe, be open, and be amazed

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Expect miracles even (or should I say, especially) in the face of deep sadness or grief. I believe that there are messages continuously being sprinkled around us throughout our daily lives, there for the taking – love and guidance from above. Call it the Universe, God, angels, guides, departed loved ones…whatever you want to call them. Hopefully you are receptive to receiving your own personal messages.It’s like reconnecting to that bright-eyed child of your past who believed in magic and possibility and witnessed it everywhere on a regular basis. More than likely, somewhere along the line, the world dulled down that very magic, instead telling us we needed logical explanations for everything. But the magic isn’t found in linear thinking and science – it is found in stardust.I was notably reminded of this the day we buried my father.We piled into the car early one morning crossing state lines traveling to bring his remains home as he had wanted. It was a full-circle journey for him – back to the cemetery on top of a mountain overlooking the small coal-mining town where life began for him. Once a vibrant slice of prideful Americana, the town is now only a mere shell of what it had once been. Nonetheless, this was home and there on a beautiful sunny afternoon, we laid him to rest in a family plot amongst his parents, grandparents and several other relatives.About 20 of us stood gathered at the end of the graveside ceremony when someone said, “let’s drive by the old house on Maple Street and take a picture of us all standing before it.” We all agreed. It infused a momentary sense of fun while simultaneously keeping us connected to this moment. We weren’t quite ready to let go, to leave Dad, to really say goodbye. The house on Maple Street was the house of my great-grandparents. This was the house where my father spent his early childhood. And this was the house that held so many of my childhood memories. I hadn’t been inside it since I was a young girl, but the mental pictures were vivid and played out in cinematic fashion.A short drive down the mountainside to the center of town, we parked our cars and got out. There it stood – its walls pulsating with our memories and lineage. But it was smaller and less formidable than I remembered.

Everything seems larger than life in our childhood memory banks.

It was an old row house with a small porch, nestled amidst a neighborhood of similar structures. My brother climbed the front steps, glancing back at me with his hand outstretched for the doorbell; he asked me, “should I ring it?” YES, you must, I responded.We quickly deducted that not only was no one home, no one was home anymore. In fact, we learned from the neighbors, the house – this epic house of our personal history - had sadly been abandoned by its last owner. We walked around the block to the alley behind the homes to peer into the long narrow backyard. It too told the story of great neglect. We boldly walked through the yard towards the house, peered through the back porch windows into what was once a lively home – it all flashed in front of me as if I was watching a vintage family film. As if turning on a projector switch – it all came to life again. I stood mesmerized by my daydream.Reconvening around the front sidewalk again, just as we were about to leave – my brother suddenly felt the urge to turn the handle on the small door leading to the cellar. The doorknob moved. A few steps down there was another interior door – it too was open. Before I knew it, I was following him into the cellar of my great grandparents. Though they were long gone, the familiar smells flooded over me. I paused momentarily as logic ensued, what are you doing? You are not going to go in there, but I couldn’t contain my giddiness. Within moments we were 3 flights up, wandering the rooms once chock full of our family, our stories, our lineage. It was as if time stopped – the rooms were void of everything – no personal articles or furniture, and yet the life that was once there swirled about us like an embrace.

I had to see it all one more time. I knew I would never be back. It connected me to my Dad. I knew he was with us. He would have gone in, no doubt about it.

We spent only a few minutes in the house and just before we were about to leave – someone opened the door to the closet that was once my great uncle’s, and there as if appearing out of thin air lay his framed Knights of Columbus certificate. Where had it come from? There was absolutely nothing in this house and even crazier than that – there had been several occupants in the house after the last of my family resided there. How had this survived and why? Why was it the only thing in the house?The document was dated April 16, 1978. I know it was something my uncle revered. Could he ever have imagined that in 2015 it would have been left abandoned in his family house, its fate unknown, likely to end up in a dumpster – or to be found by a family member bold enough to turn the doorknob 37 years later?Finding this framed document was nothing short of a miracle. It was a sign. Message received – someone was communicating with us. Perhaps it was my great Uncle or my great-grandparents. Maybe it was just my Dad saying thanks for bringing me home. Thanks for checking out the house. We are all still connected, just in a new dimension.There is no logical explanation to impart upon this one.Magic accepted…and for the rest of the afternoon, even through the sadness of having just buried my father, I felt connected to the wonder and awe of my childhood self.Believe in magic. What do you have to lose?