Two men are sitting at the breakfast bar (we call it the aircraft carrier) in the gray drizzle of this day.
One is a soldier, the other a painter. One is younger, the other a child of the sixties.
Both have traveled far more than Jill and I put together: Europe and her off-the beaten-paths places – Nepal, the Hindu Kush and some of the ‘smaller peaks’ there.
They can each tell their stories compellingly, articulately. Jill weeps quietly at some of the stories.
They use Google Earth to view homes, the train station, pubs, galleries in Brighton, England. We watch how the younger has transformed one small home in Brighton since the passing of his mother.
The painter shows in galleries, the soldier has an adventure business and aspires to be a stunt man.
Both are tall, the older has white hair where he had blonde before, and he explains to the younger that his grandfather had red hair as does he.
They are father and son.
Father with all his failings, and son for all his longings. They are tentatively, poignantly reaching to
Reaching to touch each other after a gap, an abyss of thirty missed years.
And I am pushed to see that every relationship that we have that is restored or that endures does so as Miracle, and nothing less.
And I am stunned to think, as one friend pointed out, how many, many times this is being multiplied (and not even attempted to play out) when we treat our bodies as our own as if we will never answer to another, or to Another.
The father is haltingly, sometimes painfully trying to answer to another man who came from his body, so many, many years ago.
Maybe the best miracles always start this way, courage, uncertainty, admixture of pain and hope, and always a possibility. Did God make us to always hope for the possibility that most seems like Home?
It’s all unfolding in my home because my wife has this courage, has this unwavering hope for possibilities that others scarcely dream. You probably call that prayer.