Miracles come in assorted varieties.  They don’t have to be huge “Parting of the Red Sea” spectacles or “walking-away-from-a-car-crash-unscathed” events.  Tiny miracles surround us everywhere.  Most of them are translucent; you can’t see them with your eyes, but if you reach out, you can touch them and feel them and they will affect your life in ways never before imagined.

Just look into your baby’s eyes when you take him out of the crib in the morning.  As sunlight washes his curious face, he expresses his approval with a smile, delighting in the bountiful opportunities  of a new day. There is nothing bad or commonplace in the world; only wondrous gadgets of imagination —  to be tugged upon and pulled and tasted — and his mommy and daddy, who are always there, holding him and comforting him and helping him navigate his little universe.

The day is joyful and wondrously amazing, replete with new surprises, smells, tastes, sights and sounds, yet he chooses to begin his morning by doing something familiar and comforting — touching his hand to your face.  You have become part of his day, part of the adventure, part of the miracle.

As he amuses himself by banging two plastic bowls together, you think that someday he’ll want a bright red car with big chrome wheels.  But right now, those two bowls bring him as much enjoyment as a person could know.   How odd it is that watching him makes you cry.   

In that instant, you discover the brilliant shades and hues that parenthood has added to your palette, and then it hits you:  from this day forward, your life will be comprised of one suprising new color after another.

You rock your baby to sleep at night.  He resists and fusses, but that is only because he doesn’t want the day to end.  Surely he might miss something if he shuts his eyes too soon.   He reminds you there is more to see, more to learn, every day.

The moment is unique; it will never be repeated, but the miracle remains forever, in your memories and in the moistness of a teardrop.

— Braddon