I was against time, and when I had prayed that a miracle take place, the heavens were filled with light.
It had started earlier that morning. My younger sister, Mia, had fallen during breakfast, her lips were shaking and she was whispering slowly.
When we visited the hospital, the hospital had told us that her heart was collapsing and that she needed to be transplanted instantly. But the waiting list was long, and the time was running out. I remember holding the cold metal bench in the waiting room, ill and scared more than I had ever been before. My parents tried to stay quiet, but I could see in their eyes that they were afraid of the worst.
I could not stay still. I left the hospital and drove for several hours, contacting anyone who came to mind who could help friends, old classmates, even strangers who had tweeted in the past about donating. Nothing, no spark. My phone buzzed with dismal responses: “Sorry” and “We’ll be in touch.” The sun dipped below the horizon, and still, no miracle. When I waited on the outskirts of town, staring out across the line of headlights and life moving on without us. I whispered to the night, “Please… one miracle.”And it did. My phone rang. They’d discovered a donor match surprisingly close by. The transplant team was in position already. I flew home, wind buffeting my window like the world had opened a door. Mia lived.
Weeks later, when I took her first steps out, hand in hand, I realized something miracles don’t always come with choruses from heaven. Sometimes they come in the form of a midnight phone call, and a little sister’s smile in sunlight.
