A Thanksgiving Miracle
Miracles Happen
Two years ago, on the night before Thanksgiving, when most people were basting turkeys, preparing casseroles, or drinking with hometown friends, I was on the phone with my dad’s vascular surgeon.
“There’s something profound happening in his brain,” he said solemnly. “As a surgeon, I never say this. But, I don’t recommend surgery at this time.”
My stomach dropped. I understood his meaning perfectly.
It was November of 2023, during this hospital stay treating Dad’s pneumonia, that the doctors found something else—a blood clot in his leg. The only way to save him was amputation.
“At this point,” the surgeon continued, “It may be best to let things take their course.”
This is it. I thought. My father is going to die.
I returned to the hospital on Thanksgiving morning ready for another day of sitting by his bedside, watching him sleep.
I said hello to his roommate, pulled back the curtain covering Dad’s bed, and saw a sight I never expected.
Dad was sitting up, wide-eyed, looking around the room.
“Hiya, Hon,” he said in a gravelly voice—unused for over a week.
While I had spent the evening before talking to a doctor who believed he was close to death, he was now wide awake and speaking—a skill that completely evaded him weeks prior.
It was a Thanksgiving miracle.
I felt like I had been given a second chance as well. Not only did I have the chance to tell him how much I loved him, but he could speak again! After weeks of struggling with speech due to a stroke, he was finally able to communicate.
On so many Thanksgivings past he had asked me what I was thankful for. Gratitude was such an important part of what he tried to teach his children. I always thought I had a good answer to that question, noting my health and my family, all of the important things in life. It wasn’t until this Thanksgiving, though, that I really knew what true gratitude was.
My father is alive.
My father is alive.
My father is alive—and he can talk to me.
The nurses who had been so kind and caring all came in, excited, “We can’t believe it,” one said. “It’s an honest-to-God miracle.”
I looked at the quote jar that his students had lovingly made, now resting on his nightstand. Each note in that jar represented hundreds of kids he inspired. I need to know his secret, I thought.
As we sat comfortably together, listening to his favorite Doo Wop artist, Dion, on my phone, I decided, it’s now or never. Ask him what you need to ask him, I thought.
“You know, Dad,” I started, “I always wanted to know: How do you inspire all those kids?” I pointed to the glass jar. “What’s the secret?”
“That’s easy. Just one student a day.” He smiled. “All you have to do is focus on one student a day and then, by the end of the year, you will have focused on all of them!”
I sat back in the hospital chair, mouth agape. Why had I never thought of that? Why didn’t anyone else ever think of that? It’s so simple.
If I focused on one student a day, in a 180-day school year, I could make every single one of my 125 students feel special.
Because that was always the goal and the result: to make the student feel special. Yes, his students loved his quotes and his stories, but I believe his true impact came from his heart. He genuinely cared for his students; he consistently showed them the miracle of kindness. He knew all their names, he took the time to talk to them, really asking them how they were doing. He cared and they knew he cared. For many of those teenagers, I believe that kind and caring attention was just as much of a miracle as that Thanksgiving morning was for me.