I'm expecting a miracle. Not the, "I can't believe I just passed a cop going 90 & didn't get a ticket" miracle, but a REAL miracle.

I guess I've had a positive outlook on the situation since I found out my breast cancer was back. And not the cakewalk Stage 2 diagnosis of 2003, but a Stage 4, "Say your good-byes and be thankful for whatever time the oncologist can spare you" death sentence.

I'm not sure at what point I truly, Sincerely expected the divine hand of God to reach down from the clouds and say, "Ok, despite your poor church attendance for the last, oh, ten years or so, your penchant for gossip and what is quite honestly a sinful obsession with shows like "My Super Sweet Sixteen", "Laguna Beach" and "The Hills", I think I'm going
to heal you. MIRACULOUSLY. Just like that."

I just felt it. I have to admit those feelings got stronger when my mother took me to a healer in Indianapolis. The woman certainly shamed my Catholic Icon-free home if she did nothing.

And like most of us looking for a miracle, I pictured the Big Man, sitting in this woman's prayer room, with a big smirk on his face, nodding. "Oh. NOW you need me."

Of course we all know God isn't so cynical, but if you expected
EVERYTHING you asked for, you wouldn't be on your knees, you'd be on "Sweet Sixteen" bitching to your dad about what color Mercedes you're expecting on the big day.

So when the healer asked me what my "story" was, I had to start from the beginning, & share a story that I hadn't told many people.

The first time I found out I had breast Cancer in 2003, I also found out I was three months pregnant...that same week. We decided to keep the baby and hold off chemo till I was further into my second trimester. Things were going great until, in my seventh month, my son died during a premature labor.

I was on emotional auto-pilot and did everything I could to keep my emotions from people who cared about me. I just didn't want them to see how upset I was.

The day before our son's funeral, my husband had to work and I needed someone to talk to. For a Tuesday morning, mass seemed like a good option. Too proud to ask for help, I sat in the back pew, crying. No sobbing, but definitely some high-decibel sniffling. Just praying that someone would put their hand on my shoulder, so I could release all the emotion, the story, the tears.

But when mass was over, the congregation of 20 or so, filed past me, one by one, not one person sitting down to see if everything was ok. I can understand not everyone is the type to walk up to a stranger and offer themselves, but certainly the priest would come over once he was done talking to his parishioner, right? That's his job, isn't it?

That's what I was thinking when the lights were turned off and the priest left the building.

My husband and I often tune into TBN to watch the glittery,
over-indulged televangelists telling the world about God speaking to them, which usually equates to a solicitation of some sort, so imagine my reluctance as I'm sitting in that pew by myself, having this eerie feeling like someone was telling me to "take note".

If I were one of those people, would I have reached out to me? Maybe not. I think about those people, so intent on their rosaries that chose to ignore that soul that had hit rock bottom. My friend Amy took it a step further..."What if you were suicidal? No one would have known that you put yourself out there, hoping that someone would have reached out."

I wasn't suicidal, of course, but I thought it was a valid point. So what does this have to do with my miracle? I'm not sure. But I have a strong feeling that if I'm going to be healed, I needed to share this.

Maybe if my experience makes you think twice before you pass that person who looks like the world is crushing in on them, I'll get that miracle I'm expecting.