I think that’s a term that gets thrown around a little too loosely in the world we live in.
Plays on a football field are labeled “miracles” as are the newest technologies that wow us when they come out.
Long gone are the days of a miracle being a noun, rather a miracle is confined to the world of adjectives, as a describer of something that is perceived to be unusual and peculiar in its makeup.
On May 29, 1990, a true miracle entered the world, a miracle of the noun variety, not of the adjective.
On that day 23 years ago at exactly 4:20 p.m., weighing in at a whopping 10 pounds and 4 ounces, I entered the world screaming and kicking, as most newborns do.
Immediately after entering the world I was whisked away by nurses, to await the ringer of tests that all babies go through.
Unbeknownst to the doctors and nursing team at the time, when the door to the hospital room closed and I was taken away, this would be the last time a mother would be in the same room as her child.
Twenty-six hours later a couple that had been waiting for a child of their own for years finally had their prayers answered. As they finalized adoption papers their dreams became a reality, and they had a son.
My birth mother had brought a child into a world which she did not understand, and did not have the capability to understand.
My birth mother was and still is to this day intellectually disabled, and despite her mental limitations, realized that she could not take on the enormous responsibility of raising a child by herself.
So she made the decision to give me up for adoption, a selfless act that even the mentally stable and capable struggle with.
My birth mother’s decision gave relief and answering to the prayers of my adoptive parents, or as I like to call them “Mom and Dad.”
My mom worked at the hospital that I was born in, and once nurses and doctors learned of a possible adoption opportunity she was the first person they alerted.
My dad likes to tell the story that he went to work that Tuesday morning as a normal guy with a wife and dog at home, and by his next shift on Wednesday he was a normal guy with a wife, dog and baby boy at home.
Most parents have nine months to prepare for bringing their baby home. With baby showers, and gifts from friends and family, their house is set and ready for a new addition to the family. While on the flip side, my parents brought their child home from the hospital to a house that was not prepared for the accommodation of a newborn.
There was no crib, no toys, no diapers, no Gerber baby food.
The only thing they had was a child, which in the end was the only thing they had ever wanted.
Twenty-three years later that same child who that they brought home from the hospital is married and close to graduating from college.
A true feat for someone who seemingly had the cards stacked against him before he was even born.
When I first told the woman who would eventually be my wife my adoption story, she responded, “Wow! That’s such a miracle that you are here today, and can do all the things that you do!”
“That’s not the miracle,” I said, “I am the miracle.”