A Small, Quiet Miracle

by Peggy Haymes, Pinnacle Associate

I live not far from Reynolda Village in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. The former country estate of R.J. Reynolds is now a treasured public place with the great lawn in front of the house serving as our small version of Central Park and its beautiful gardens providing peaceful respite. On a sunny Saturday morning you’ll find people of all ages walking, running, and biking there.

Most Saturdays you’ll find me and my dog there rambling over the various paths and trails.

That’s where we were last Saturday. The blue sky went on forever on a morning just cool enough to be comfortable. A steady stream of people and dogs passed by.

As we jogged down the main drive past the house, I saw a toddler on a strider bike eyeing my large dog.

“Would you like to say hello to my dog?” I asked. “He’s very gentle and he loves to meet children.” The little boy nodded yes then looked at his mom who nodded yes as well. They approached my eagerly waiting dog.

The mom instructed the boy on how to pet Bear, how to give the right scratches literally from his ears to his tail. Bear stood completely still except for the spinning helicopter of his tail. We were all absorbed in the moment.

But that wasn’t the small, quiet miracle.

When the boy had given his last good scratch, we all looked up.

We were standing in the middle of the drive.

 There was a very large van waiting to pass.

There was a car behind him, also waiting to pass.

No one honked a horn. A dozen or so people passed by us and no one told us that we needed to get out of the way, that we were blocking traffic.

All of the Saturday morning crowd just respected the space for a boy to pet a dog.

You may not think it’s much, but in these fractured, fractious times the grace of it felt like a small but beautiful miracle of kindness and presence.

Thanksgiving week means we are officially hurtling towards Advent, the time when we celebrate the biggest miracle ever – God with us is now residing.

For clergy serving churches we may be breathless with wonder but are just as likely to be breathless with All That Must Be Done.

In the midst of making sure the extra bulletins get printed, in the midst of brokering a peace accord between those who want red ribbons on the wreaths and those who insist upon a liturgical purple, take a moment and look for the small, quiet miracle.

Because somewhere the world is pausing while a boy pets a dog, or a soft smile joins the familiar tears on a grieving face, or as you stand at a pulpit reading a text you’ve read dozens of times a new sliver of light and hope and grace and love opens in your very own heart.

Gather such moments and ponder them in your heart.