Some of my earliest memories from Primary are a suction machine being used.
There was a little boy in my primary who had suffered a near drowning when he was a baby.
He was resuscitated by his family members and the emergency crew.
He did require a tracheotomy to breath from the accident forward.
He also suffered enough brain damage that he never walked. Never talked.
He was a sweet spirit.
And I remember him sitting in the back of the Primary room in his chair.
And you could hear when he needed to be suctioned.
And I remember the sound of the suction machine.
How loud it was.
I also remember when the Primary lost those sounds.
How sad his family was.
But I remember on more than one occasion hearing his Mommy talk about his passing.
And the miracles she felt around the time of his passing.
Bradley has had lots of secretions this week.
I've needed to use his suction machine daily.
And every time I turn it on,
I remember the boy from my Primary.
I remember the boy from my Primary.
And his family.
And I'm starting to really love that machine.
Now that I'm having a break from the appointments,
I'm trying to get done all of the things I have neglected since Bradley's birth.
I walked into a store the other day with intentions of buying new running shoes.
My old ones had gone flat.
And as Charlotte, Bradley, and I rounded the store, my eyes caught sight of a little chair.
It had cream upholstery and a slouched back.
I sat it in and found it was also very comfy.
And the tag reflected a sizable mark down.
I couldn't figure why it would be marked so low.
It looked in perfect condition.
And I picked it up and tried to figure how I would get it to the register while I was pushing Bradley.
But suddenly a male employee appeared out of no where.
I asked if he could take it to the register for me; that I wanted to purchase the chair.
And he looked down at Bradley and said it would be no problem.
And as I pushed Bradley to the register, another lady looked at Bradley in his stroller.
She offered me a cut in the line.
And the check out counters were high.
And the employees behind them couldn't see my Bradley.
I thought that perhaps they would offer me help to my car, but they didn't.
And that was okay.
I would work it out somehow.
Even if I had to put the chair down and rest,
on the way to my car, we would eventually make it.
And the lady who had let us cut the line,
caught up to us and offered to push Bradley,
while I carried the chair.
I told her how grateful I was for her help.
And about half way to the car she asked what was wrong with my baby.
Where should I start?
And I told her that he was having all sorts of problems.
That he was getting close to turning two and no one really understood what was wrong.
But that his development was now regressing and he had been admitted to hospice care.
And she started to cry and asked if she could bless my son.
And she said a prayer as she held Bradley's hand.
And she told God she believed in miracles and that she was asking him for one.
And when she finished we were both crying.
And she and I hugged.
I wasn't sure what to say, except for thank you.
And she was part of a miracle for Bradley.
But not the one that she expected.
She helped me to get a chair that I could take pictures of Bradley in.
Pictures that I will always remember him with.
I've talked about miracles before.
So many miracles Bradley has been a part of.
But not the miracles most men expect or want.
Of course, I would prefer a miraculous recovery for Bradley.
But if that never happens, and he passes too early,
I want to remember the miracles that happened all around him.
And this was just another one of those miracles.
The miracle of the chair.