I have the phone set on “silent” until 9 in the morning, so it isn’t supposed to ring before seven — and when it does, it usually does it rather sotto voce, so it won’t knock me out of bed. This was probably not all that loud because what is left of my hearing is intact, but it was early. Generally, this is that time of morning when I am having my most interesting dreams.
I looked at the phone. There was a real name and a real number, which meant it was a real call. Which, given the hour, I really needed to answer.
“Hullo,” I choked into the phone. I hadn’t yet cleared my throat, so I was hoarse and probably nominally incoherent.
“We’ve got your door,” he said.
My door. Right. Thursday. The day of the door. The arrival of the ordered door, the replacement, the repair of the front of the house. Owen and Dave had been here yesterday installing a new microwave oven above the stove. They bought it for me as a gift. Without my asking. This is a first in my life. People don’t give me “serious” gifts — other than Garry, I mean. He has and sometimes, still does.
The microwave is new and shiny. Black and beautiful to match the range and the dishwasher I never need (there are only two of us — how many dishes do we really use?). I’m afraid to use the new microwave because it will get dirty and then it won’t be new anymore, but I digress.
While they were here, the guys cleared space in the shop downstairs for the incoming door. I already knew they would bring it today. I had set it up and this is Koopman. They keep their word. I merely didn’t think it would show up during the pre-dawn hours. I was thinking maybe eight? Nine?
I said “You are here?” Just to make sure they weren’t in some other town with maybe an hour before delivery. That happens, too.
“Yes,” he said. “We are here.”
“Okay,” I said. What was I going to do? Send them away? “Let me put something on and I will limp downstairs.”
By the time I got there, they had opened the shop’s double door, put the door in its holding place, and latched the door again. They were ready to move on.
“Wow,” I said. “You guys are really efficient! I am impressed,” and I was. They grinned.
“We asked the boss if we could start a bit later, but he says we need to get started first thing in the morning.” By which clearly, he meant first thing.
“Well, you did. This is the earliest thing to happen to me in any morning I can recently remember. But this is great. I can go back to sleep.” I said. But before that, I opened the computer, typed out a two-line note to Owen. Closed down. Curled up and returned to the land of dreams and fantasy.
Almost five blessed hours of sleep later, with one handsome new door in the shop, all is well in my home-like world. All the fumbling and bumbling and bad craftsmanship and ugliness of this month has, in the course of weeks, been replaced by miraculous help from those who didn’t have any reason to help me. Hands and hearts. And a son and his partner who cared enough to do a more than the minimum … and there is light.
These are the real miracles, you know. Not the ones we think of where Zeus or Jehovah or whoever splits the heavens and pops down for a chat on truth, enlightenment, and the meaning of everything. Miracles are small. Personal. And greater for their intimacy. When a friend gives you some money to fix your door and your son and friend surprise you with a shiny new piece of kitchen equipment, the entire world looks new and shiny. Because despite the horrors, there is goodness. We are better than we need to be. Remind me I said this.
These are miracles. And I thank you, miracle bringers.