I started to write about something that happened to me two weeks ago, calling it “a small miracle.” Then, I stopped, and wondered, “Is there such a thing?”
Here is what happened.
I was at Clergy Call in Washington (see post on May 14). I was waiting to thank a speaker, when I noticed a name tag reading “Heather, Livonia, MI.”
So I said, “How are things in Livonia?” She said, “Fine. Have you been to Livonia?” I said, “Well, I grew up in Milford (my birthtown) and have worked in Livonia.” Heather said, “No way. I am from Milford, too.”
Now, please understand. Milford was a place of 5,000 when I left in 1981. You just don’t run into that many folks from Milford.
Turns out Heather’s father and I were in the Rotary Club together. We graduated from the same high school, albeit 30 years apart.
But get this: when I left Milford, I did not know any LGBT folks. It was very white and conservative. Now, Heather is an activist for LGBT equality, and leads the Martin Luther King Day march, too.
We shared dinner, and she brought me up to date on the place that long ago ceased feeling like home. I cried, letting myself feel long buried feelings of loss and hurt, and also feeling joy that the past is not the end of the story.
Small miracle? Feels pretty big to me.
Thank you, God, for staying in Milford, when I left. And thank you, Heather.