An Undocumented

The biblical definition of a miracle is an extraordinary event manifesting divine intervention in human affairs.

And, of course many such events, if not all, are remembered with religious fervor and devotional awe.

Yet, at the risk of being irreverent, I firmly believe most miracles occur quietly as life moves forward, and the road we have been given unwinds.

And so it was, with a miracle that occurred on a dark winter’s night in the unromantic borough of Brooklyn, New York

The small room was crowded with students enrolled in the fall semester of a popular NYC College on that snowy January evening. It was also the final session of my public speaking class.

Throughout the six weeks we shared evenings in the dingy classroom, there had been no social interaction with classmates.

It was not that kind of college campus, nor did any of my fellow students want it to be.

The few women in the group arrived directly from offices across the city.

Most, including me, were classmates that memorable year, not only for financial reasons, but also because our parents did not believe in further education for female offspring..

The catch phrase most of us had heard and now rebelled against was:

“Why spend money when it will be wasted after you marry and have children?”

The male students were predominantly veterans of WWII and eager to utilize benefits of their GI Bill. Many were also young husbands and fathers, eager to get home to their families.

Apart from a few “Hello’s,” and “How are you?” I remember little interaction in any of the diverse classes I had religiously attended during the past six semesters.

He, because of the relationship between the alphabet and his family name, was the first to present the assigned report.

While I watched quietly as he stood tall and erect in the front of the room, not comfortable with speaking in public and obviously uneasy about being the first, I recall not a word he uttered.

I only remember thinking,

“Mother of God, if I could have that man in my life, I would never want another.”

Class ended abruptly after the remainder of our group had presented the mandatory 5 minute assignment.

Passing grades tonight would allow all of us to add another few credits to our anticipated degree.

Taking time to button my long black coat and prepare for the one block walk on a frigid night I was among the last to leave the tall brick building. The IND station which I routinely used for my trip home to Manhattan was around the frosty city corner.

Initially, I assumed the dark platform was empty when I walked carefully down the subway stairs. Then I saw him standing alone also waiting for the next train.

To my knowledge he had never been at that station before.

Abandoning all inherent feminine caution, I walked over and said, “Hello.”

That is the moment our Miracle unfolded.

Life was never to be the same for either one of us, and it endured for 57 years.

And from that moment on, I never stopped believing in miracles, documented or not.