The artist echoes the melody of my heart, her words a reflection of my inner most suffering. Because for how long would I be able to hold on to this hope, for how long must I see my own flesh and blood, my daughter, my first born face challenges far beyond her years. With every spasm of a new seizure contorting her fragile body, her breathing labored, her lips tinted blue I helplessly wait for it to stop. I wait for an answer to my prayers; for the proof that my faith is real, for a sign, a miracle….something…everything to be revealed so I can make sense of a senseless reality.
I am challenged by my own view of life and its meaning. Because how dare I judge a life as lesser because the outcomes of walking; talking; success and contribution is absent. What is the meaning then of life? Is it to produce, to do, to achieve, to succeed and to conquer. What lies beneath it all, under the layers of complexity of our daily busyness?
Why do I assess her inability to DO as a disability to BE? Because in her silence lies a wisdom that many an elder would envy to possess. She is loved beyond what she can give purely for who she is. Her essence, her unique irreplaceable true self.
What would it take for me to be able to truly accept …miracle or not?
In vulnerability I see my own miscalculation. My need for outputs, outcomes, cause and effect that drives my faith and determines my hope. And as I listen to the soulful melody of Alisa Turner my heart and soul echoes: At the end of the day I’ll stand right here and say…I know that You love me. Miracle or not.