Miracles Require An Action Verb
What if miracles are available to all of us…the idea that somehow a higher order has been achieved out of chaos and randomness: the ongoing gifts of Mother Nature, lucky happenstance in friendships or life partners, and experiences that seem fated.
-The Miracle Collectors
February is always a reminder about that wondrous of all virtues, LOVE, which compels us to action. And, as Katie writes about in this month's newsletter, miracles, too, are not stagnant, they invite us to chase and collect, discover and appreciate, and remain open to what the universe sends our way – whether on a recent moonlit night or a Brooklyn subway car long ago.
Collecting Miracle Moments One Story at a Time.
Joan and Katie
Miracles are available to all of us, but they don’t land on our heads, at least not very often. It’s why we insisted on using an action verb in the subtitle of The Miracle Collectors, UNCOVERING Stories of Wonder, Joy, and Mystery. Sometimes the uncovering part is simply being aware and appreciating in the moment. As I challenged myself to think about how much I’d been paying attention lately, I recalled an experience back in August, driving home from dinner with friends as we saw the super moon coming up over the horizon. Otherworldly and gigantic looking, it guided us to the beach where we caught the moon in the open sky and watched it rise over the Atlantic Ocean. Wonder at its finest. Or, a few weeks ago, when my three-year-old grandson said, “I love you,” looking up at me with such earnestness after fifteen minutes of concentrated magna-tile building. Joy in the moment, and beyond. And, of course, discovering stories that defy explanation.
Marcel Sternberger was a well-known Hungarian-American journalist and photographer from the 1930s to the 1950s, who, one morning in January, 1948, switched up his sacrosanct routine to visit a sick friend in Brooklyn. Hours later, back on the subway bound for his office in Manhattan, there were no seats available (some things never change) until just as the doors were closing, a man hurried off and Marcel took his place. Next to him was a young man reading a Hungarian newspaper and Marcel struck up a conversation, first asking him something in his native language. He learned of the man’s imprisonment in a German labor battalion, his return to Hungary after the war, and the discovery that his entire family, including his wife, had been sent to Auschwitz and murdered.
Marcel was very familiar with Debrecen, the Hungarian city where the young man had lived before the war, but his story also sounded vaguely familiar. He had recently met a young woman at a friend’s home who had survived Auschwitz and was also from Debrecen. Her entire family had been murdered before the camp was liberated, and she found herself on the first boat of displaced persons bound for NYC. Marcel had asked for her address and phone number thinking he and his family could invite her to dinner to begin to create a community for her in New York.
Marcel’s heart began to pound. Could there possibly be any connection between these two people? He anxiously retrieved his address book to find the entry and asked in a manner more relaxed than he felt, “Was your wife’s name Marya?” His companion looked as if he might faint and said, “Yes, how did you know?” Marcel took the man by the arm and exited at the next station to find a pay phone where they called Marya, confirming the address in Debrecen where they had lived. With the young man too distraught to function, Marcel put him in a cab, paid the driver, and sent him on his way to Marya’s new home and the rest of their lives together.*
Marcel told his story to a foreign news journalist and writer for Life Magazine, who wrote about it a year later for Readers Digest. The story continues to resonate today, illustrating how miracles can be chased and collected, uncovered and marveled at. They are not stagnant, but rather unfold through time, especially if we are vigilantly on the lookout for the nuggets of grace that come our way. (Katie)
*It Happened On the Brooklyn Subway, originally written by Paul Deutschman for Readers Digest, 1949. https://www.michaelsmithnews.com/2021/01/on-love-and-hope.html