How An Everyday Hassle Became a Miraculous Rescue

Everyday miracles. Events that begin as random, ordinary experiences take on enormous meaning when they are orchestrated by a powerful, loving force who is intimately involved in the details of our lives.

What a joy to share this guest post from an anonymous contributor who we’ll name “Grateful Believer in Miracles.”

That June day seemed as ordinary as any, other than receiving a minor outpatient medical procedure that required me to pick up some prescription medication. My doctor called in my prescription to a pharmacy that was on my way home from his office, a different one than I usually use. This pharmacy was also located near my son, Keith’s, apartment.

About twenty minutes later, I pulled into the pharmacy’s drive-thru. The pharmacy worker informed me that my prescription was not ready.

“Okay, there’s no car behind me, so I’ll just wait here at the window.” The woman’s face curled into a snarl, as if waiting customers aggravated her.

In a few minutes, a car pulled behind me so I drove my car out of the drive-through lane, made a big circle around the building, and got back in line. Now there were two cars in front of me. I waited.

When I pulled back up to the drive-thru window, the pharmacy employee snarled at me again and said in a condescending voice, “I told you your prescription is not ready!”

“Sure,” I responded as nicely as I could, though heat was rising in my cheeks. “I’ll just wait but if someone else comes I’ll pull around again.” And that is exactly what happened. Again I made that large circular sweep around the building and got back in line.

“Mrs. Edmonds! It takes at least twenty minutes to get a prescription filled!” she snapped, as if on instant replay. By now I was ready to snap too.

“This prescription was called in from my doctor’s office before I left and it took me a good twenty minutes to get here. I have circled around twice and let three other cars in front of me so you had well over twenty minutes to work on it by now!”

Taking a breath I gathered myself and attempted a calmer tone. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll go grab some lunch and then come back. Maybe that will give you enough time to get it filled.”

I drove out of the parking lot to a nearby fast food place and ordered a chicken salad and a medium drink. As I returned to the pharmacy I recognized a familiar figure striding through the parking lot.

There in front of me appeared my adult son, Keith, walking like he was on a mission. No shirt, no shoes, hair disheveled, wearing only a pair of sweat-pants.

Keith, who lives alone in an apartment and holds down a nearly full-time job, suffers from schizoaffective disorder. Although he has long periods of wellness, he also experiences recurrent, brief, psychotic episodes which require hospitalization.

I pulled the car to a stop in the middle of the parking lot, got out, and approached him. “Are you okay?”

“I’m sick,” he replied in a monotone voice.

“I can see that. Come get in my car and I’ll call Dad and we’ll get you some help.”

He treaded with slow robotic movements toward my car and climbed in the open door onto the passenger seat. I parked the car and told Keith I was going to call his dad.

He made no response but I saw his gaze drift towards my salad and drink. “I’m hungry,” he said, his words flat.

“Here honey, have some salad.” I opened the salad for him, placed it on his lap, and put the fork in his hand. Then I called my husband.

I never know how much to say in front of Keith when he is not in his normal state of mind. I wanted to get him help without causing him to bolt from the car. My husband, John, asked questions requiring only yes and no answers and managed to glean enough information to understand that he needed to come to our aid right away. Keith hungrily devoured the salad and drink as we waited. Once John arrived, Keith agreed to go with us to the hospital. I drove while John sat with him in the back seat.

After Keith was safely admitted to the hospital, I went to his apartment which is normally clean and neat. This time, pills from various bottles were spilled all over the kitchen cabinet, unwashed pots and uneaten food looking days old were strewn about, and one burner on the stove was turned on and red hot. These conditions are always a sign that he’s sick.

A storm of thoughts swirled in my mind as I considered the many disastrous incidents that never occurred.

Keith could have accidently taken an overdose of meds. He could have set the apartment on fire if any object had touched the red-hot stove. He could have walked out into traffic. But none of that happened. It almost seemed as if someone unseen had been watching over him.

I thought about that cantankerous pharmacy worker and how her irritable behavior infuriated me. Now I wanted to thank her. All of it—her bad attitude as well as mine—placed me in a holding pattern until Keith’s path converged with mine. I even had food waiting for him in my car. Who knows when he had eaten last?

Jesus teaches us the depth of God’s love for us in Matthew 10:29—31:

Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground outside your Father’s care….So don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.

There is an old hymn from the early 1900s called, “His Eye is on the Sparrow.” My favorite verse says:

“I sing because I’m happy. I sing because I’m free. For His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.”

Do miracles happen? Keith and I think so!