Everyone seems to have some sort of miracle story, whether it's something secular like the Red Sox winning the World Series in recent years or something uber-Catholic like the miracles attributed to Our Lady of Lourdes' intercession...everyone has a story.
I had a bit of a mini-miracle this weekend on the day of my uncle's funeral. The service was beautiful, but I wasn't convinced that the sunny day outside was a miracle even though it was overcast at all other points of the day. The miracle wasn't something involving the "rapture." The miracle had nothing to do with an impossible cure or a HUGE, public sign of some sort. The miracle didn't even have anything to do with my learning how to change a tail light on Gandalf the White (my car).
My uncle, as I will always remember...was a simple, loving man who loved playing games, having a good time, and spending time with family. Since he passed away, I have prayed for some sort of sign that he was okay. I didn't ask for a sign so I could stop praying for his soul. Far from it. I just asked for a sign just so I knew he'd made it...so I could find some comfort in knowing that he was okay. Well, I got my sign. I was playing Scrabble with my boyfriend and the first time reached into the bag, I ended up pulling out three tiles. I put them on the little wooden rack and next thing I know, I realized that the letters spelled out J-O-E. Joe. That was my uncle's nickname to all the non-Portuguese friends and family.
Call it what you will, but as far as I'm concerned, this has mini-miracle written all over it. Between this and my dreams about him...my prayers were answered and I am certain my uncle is okay. I know the mini-miracle is probably not huge enough or significant enough to ever get the Vatican to recognize my uncle as a saint....but it's good enough for me.