The kitchen was hot as white chili cooked in an enamel pot on our worn, ten year old stove. The space wasn’t just filled with strangely warm air on January 11th. Floating through it was joy and the reality that miracles are real.
The reality that they walk among us.
The island was covered with color from vegetables, fruit, salsa, cheese, and of course, sweet tea. We all gathered around it as if we were penguins trying to keep warm.
“Everybody, we need to go that way,”Mommy said,pointing at the kitchen table.
We all shuffled and giggled as we picked up our glasses of Sparkling Apple Cider. 20 members of my family encircled our 8×8 foot, white oak table. It was toast time. My cousin, Patrick, raised his glass. After laughing because of Sparkling Apple Cider running down his arm from an overflowing cup, he thanked his dad, my uncle, for raising him, for being an awesome dad. The 6’5” man with a loud laugh that I call Uncle Bobby, turned 51 today.
Today we all thanked God that he is with us. And not six feet under the ground because of the brain bleed that attempted to drain his life from him in the winter of 2011. Today he was here. Today is a miracle. He is still Patrick’s dad.