Maura Zagran's Blog

Breakfast in Austin

Maura — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 10:00:00 GMT

So I changed things up a bit this morning. Instead of my usual workout/green smoothie/blahblahblah, I "went" to Austin for breakfast, where I enjoyed a memorable bowl of oatmeal as I was entertained, inspired, and empowered for a day of writing new material by Bob Schneider, who performed live, just for me, courtesy of my iPod.

As a result of taking that little bit of time aside, I am beginning the day with the kind of energy that is created when the world is exploding into love all around me, 'cause love is everywhere.

I'm good now, in fact I'm getting better and better with every passing minute, and I'm ready to start looking at the people I'm going to be writing about. As I do, I'll be smiling about the caterpillar and laughing to myself about Batman-but-you-can-call-me-Bob.

But the best part about breakfast in Austin is that I have been reassured that somewhere in this crazy world, Romeo and Juliet are holding hands and strolling in a park where 40 rescued potential best friends frolic excitedly, looking up with expectant eyes and wagging their hopeful tails, one tail at a time, all the while praying fervent canine prayers that today is the day they are invited into their forever homes.

Music. Poetry with a melody. Fuel for the heart. Breakfast of champions.

Coca CrossFit, A Community

Maura — Fri, 28 Oct 2011 16:09:57 GMT

Last night, I attended the charter meeting of a new group. The Coca CrossFit Book Club is a pet project of Jessica M. Shultzaberger. Jessica says that the focus of our endeavors will be books that provide mind food for our fitness goals. The first book we discussed is Strengths Finder 2.0 by Tom Rath. It's a book that translates statistically significant research arrived at by psychologists who study ways that personality traits can be revealed in tests.

I read it, not expecting to learn a whole lot since this is my area of expertise. But I was surprised. I learned a huge lesson from this slim volume, and the lesson didn't have anything to do with my fitness goals. It had everything to do with an issue that has troubled me for a very long time.

I've been a fitness bum for more than twenty years. I hired a personal trainer back in the day, back when moms with toddlers in tow hadn't even heard of such a thing. Though I'm not much of a runner, I enjoy strength training, spinning, yoga, pilates, and hiking. There was even a time when I joined the Swim-cap Set for water aerobics. (Stop laughing. I was healing a torn meniscus.) For a while, I got up at 4:30 in the morning and drove fifteen miles for the sadistic pleasure (don't you just love oxymorons?) of working out with Cleveland's own Boot Camp Babes. Why, I consider my workouts to be such an essential part of health and well being, my two amazing trainers-turned-friends appear in the Acknowledgements of Miracles Every Day.

But it was not until this past spring that I discovered the elite workout system known as CrossFit.

Thanks to my friend, Mary Gigliotti, I was introduced to Kate "Killer" Rawlings, owner of and coach at Coca CrossFit in North Ridgeville, Ohio. Kate has made a name for herself by breaking most, if not all, of the rules in various and sundry areas of life.

To look at her, you'd never guess that Kate is one of the nation's strongest young women. She's petite: five foot-you've-gotta-be-kidding-me. But a dynamo.

Kate fell head over heels and toes-to-the-bar in love with the sense of community this fitness approach offers. CrossFit is to the world of fitness what Harley Davidson is to the world of motorcycles. It's a community. CrossFit competition brought out the Killer in Kate; she (power-) snatched a spot as the 29th strongest woman in the nation.

She threw the die, eschewed the easy paycheck, and opened her own gym. Her passion is contagious. Her work ethic is impressive. Most days, she coaches nine hours--on her feet teaching, demonstrating, encouraging, inspiring men, women, teens, and kids. Weekends are more of the same, with roving WODs (Workouts of the Day), competitions, and, sometimes, happy hours with the gang. Word of mouth is spreading the news of a compassionate and compelling personal coach who really cares about her flock of peeps. More and more people are finding their way to her Mills Road gym.

As for me, I came to Kate with a rotator cuff that had been torn for three years. I refused to have surgery on it. I can be stubborn that way. I'm glad that I did, because within just a few months of training under Kate's watchful eye, the pain vanished.

Since the sense of community is what drew Kate so completely in to the CrossFit circle, Kate gave her blessing to Jessica's idea and was there to help launch her company's book club. The round-table discussion mirrored the atmosphere at Coca: warm, convivial, accepting, but challenging. When it came my turn to describe what I learned from Strengths Finder 2.0 I found myself trying to catch a room full of strangers up on decades of my life.

How could I explain the origins of a life-issue? What it is like to crave the time aside that it takes to be a writer?

In a busy house with a large family and an extensive circle of friends, it seems that something having to do with someone else's life is always clamoring for my attention. And so, I've struggled with frustration and anger.

True, I'm ridiculously driven. I have a need to do, do, do more, more, more for many, many, many. At odds with this drive is the need to create.

There you have it: your strength is your weakness but your weakness is your strength. Yin and yang. Frick and frack.

Magically, this little book showed me that I've been incredibly lucky. My particular constellation of strengths is not just utilized in my life. It is optimized. For example, I would have wasted much of what makes me Me if I had one child instead of six.

I know now that the way I drain every drop out of every day is a natural consequence of my strengths. This book club turned out to be a gift that I gave to myself. Reading the pages of our first book was like unwrapping that gift. What I found inside was serenity.

I'm done with being frustrated. I am finally at peace with someone named Maura who feels most at home when she is engaged in the act of striving.

Halloween: Through the Years from Costumes to Holy Ghosts

Maura — Mon, 19 Sep 2011 11:32:37 GMT

Who doesn't enjoy Halloween? I know I do. For me, Halloween evokes very special memories. As a child, even the spookiness of Trick or Treating in the dark was wrapped up in tenderness and love.

For starters, Halloween is the birth date of an older brother I absolutely adored. He was tall, dark, and handsome, and I loved him with all my heart. Paul Edward Poston, Jr., the second-born in our family of eight, was "my" big brother, the guy who looked over me, his chosen little sister, my surrogate father when Dad couldn't be around. I recall Paul walking me to my music lessons at Wagner's Music Store in downtown Elyria. The first instrument I played was an accordion, and I have vivid memories of Paul carrying my accordion in its case as I trotted at his side, trying to keep up with his long stride. I thrilled to Paul's escapades as a football player for Elyria High School and Marietta College. A formative experience was being a bridesmaid when he married the one and only love of his life, Cheryl Ann "Cheri" Pasky. They were crazy in love right up 'till the day in April 2000 that he was killed in a car accident. I miss him every day, but never more than on his Halloween birthday.

My Halloween memories are also tender because my mother lavished attention upon all of her children in pulling together Trick or Treat costumes that made us feel good about ourselves. I recall one preschool costume that incorporated my special lovey, a squishy-soft, plastic Lamb. My mother got out the sewing machine and whipped up a ruffly Little Bo Peep costume. Another year, I was a gypsy, and I felt so special wearing nearly every piece of jewelry she owned. What was remarkable is that she put this kind of energy into all of us. By the time the bewitching hour arrived, all of the Poston kids had been transformed into something exotic, and we trooped out the front door with our pillow cases and our high hopes that KitKats, Snickers, and Almond Joys would tumble in piles on the living room floor when we upended our sacks.

I honored my mother's efforts by pouring the same kind of energy upon my children. Those years were even more fun for me than my childhood Halloween celebrations. Seated at my own sewing machine while whipping up costumes for my own little bears and scarecrows and cowgirls and doctors and nurses, I ruminated on an indebtedness to my mother for having taught me the art of Halloween Love.

Sadly, my costume-making days are over. But I have a new and superb addition to my Halloween traditions. This year, I will re-read Gary Jansen's fabulous book, Holy Ghosts, which was released last year. This year, I'll read it in a paperback version and I'll make a whole new set of highlightings on the pages. The Sunday Night Solstice Book Club will be meeting to discuss Holy Ghosts on October 16. It's a perfect read for this time of year.

Holy Ghosts is the true story of how Gary came to understand that there were presences who resided in his Long Island home, whom he consulted (Mary Ann Winkowski) for advice on the problem, and what he did to get rid of them. These unseen presences were interfering with his home life and bothering him and his family. The book details Gary's journey from total cluelessness about earthbound spirits to an informed and respectful appreciation for another dimension of this thing we call life. The book also lays forth a cohesive tutorial on the relationship between religion and the paranormal. Gary shows how these two concepts are not as estranged as recent church teachings would have us believe.

Bottom line: this guy has made religion his career. He knows what he is talking about. From my own experience in observing the Holy Spirit at work, I rather believe that the Jansen household was inhabited by two earthbound spirits precisely because it was God's intention to use somebody with impeccable credentials to tell a ghost story in exactly the way that Gary has told it. Because of this fun, well-written, and informative book, even skeptics will arrive at a moment when cascading goosebumps open their eyes to a new appreciation of a comprehensive God whose creation lacks nothing. He has provided this earthly world for us; Heaven for my Halloween-born brother; and a place between for those we thought existed only in our imaginations.

Amos Lee: A Voice Toward Reason

Maura — Sun, 17 Jul 2011 21:29:01 GMT

My guess is that singer/songwriter Amos Lee is considered an old soul by those who have known him since birth. His lyrics reflect resolute preoccupation with august themes. Using the pickax of Aristotelian logic, he trains the granite eye of inquiry upon the particular. He then mines from his examination new perceptions of universal truths. His treatises are formulated in song verses wherein he wrestles the weighty to a philosophical ground zero, and he grapples with the issues until he can rise to the higher ground of greater insight.

He sings with soul, too. As a child of the 70s, I retain an appreciation for the nakedness, sincerity, and historicity of music that strips the protective veneer of pretension from us all, for I came of age when being soulful was the quintessential goal of social evolution. There is no more meaningful compliment one can lay in a musician's guitar case than to say He has soul. Somehow, Amos Lee sings with the heavy, hurting soul of the Old South. In his voice, we hear echoes of oppressed people too intelligent not to try to give voice to injustice. When he sings, we hear the desperate spirit of a revival meeting. Because the voice is so authentic, the phrasing so intuitive, and the words so powerful, the music touches a nerve. This is a voice that microphones long to partner with.

All this would never fly except that Amos Lee's old-soul eyes are looking through the prism of a prophetic tradition. Consider his name. According to The Hebrew and English Lexicon of the Old Testament (Brown, Driver, and Briggs, Oxford University Press, 1968), amos is a verb meaning to carry a load.

Knowing this, before we even take a peek at the 8th Century B.C. writings gathered in The Bible's "The Book of Amos", we know a little bit about the author. Indeed, the prophet Amos bore the burdens of his times. He was a breeder of sheep whose prophesying expressed outrage at the shambles the Israelites had made of things. He warned, "Hear this, you who swallow up the needy, and make the poor of the land fail . . . The Lord has sworn by the pride of Jacob: 'Surely I will never forget any of their works.'" (8:4,7) Amos, a social activist way before activism was cool, harbored a keen awareness that justice is so much at the core of spirituality, they are one and the same: "But let justice run down like water, and righteousness like a mighty stream." (5:24)

The surname of this extraordinary troubadour comes from an Old English word, leah, or, clearing, as in a clearing of wood. And so Amos Lee is one who bears a heavy load, but he carries his burden of anguish into a clearing that has been leveled by his own labors. That clearing is his songs.

That his songs have touched our collective nerve is evidenced by the debut at #1 on the Billboard charts of his most recent record, released in January 2011, the magnificent Mission Bell. Lee has said that this record represents a conscious effort to sit with his ideas long enough to allow the music's sonic, searching, and spiritual qualities rise to the surface, fully-formed. [Note to Amos: It works. Do it again.]

Last night, at Cleveland's Jacobs Pavilion @ Nautica, I felt a strong sense of the presence of jazz great John Coltrane. In speaking of Coltrane's relevance, Bob Thiele, who produced Coltrane's legendary masterpiece, A Love Supreme, said, "It would seem to me you're either affected immediately or never. Coltrane affected me, and I'm honest enough to say I don't know why." Ravi Coltrane, son of the brilliant musician, said of his father's quartet, "They were a real band. These guys were really talking to each other, they knew how to finish each other's sentences."

As a performer, Lee affects audiences by initiating an invitation for them to participate in a call-and-response. Many respond by hearing not just the music; they hear the soul of the singer in the music. As evidenced at last night's concert, Lee is not only speaking to us. He is also speaking for us. And we are so connected to him that we are finishing his musical sentences.

Lee has said that he offers "another voice toward reason", but what a singular voice his is! His music contains such complexity, it reveals him to be simultaneously a prophet for our times as well as an echo of our collective past.

Influential author, poet, Zen master, teacher, peace activist, and Vietnamese monk Thich Nhat Hanh discusses the concept of mindfulness in his book Living Buddha, Living Christ. He explains how practicing mindfulness leads to peace within, and that it is a necessary pre-condition for expanding peace all around us. He shares an old memory: "When I was a young monk in Vietnam, each village temple had a big bell, like those in Christian churches in Europe and America. Whenever the bell was invited to sound (in Buddhist circles, we never say "hit" or "strike" a bell), all the villagers would stop what they were doing and pause for a few minutes to breathe in and out in mindfulness."

Mission Bell sounds a melodic call to mindfulness.

Two compelling songs on Mission Bell that highlight issues needing our attention are "Out of the Cold" and "Cup of Sorrow". A personal favorite, from Lee's 2008 record Last Days at the Lodge is the astonishing clarion call to action, "Jails and Bombs", which touches on the subject matter of my next book.

Lee's music escorts us to a place aside--a place where we feel safe enough to allow mindfulness to unfold. When we discover that his lyrics have brought us to the edge of a precipice, Lee holds on tight. He does not let us fall into an abyss. Instead, he pulls us up into a new understanding--a new place aside--where we 'get' what he has known all along: the answers lie not in the simple identification and labeling of our problems. They lie in the love that blooms like a "Flower" in the sun of our reckoning. Will we continue to swallow up the needy? Will we continue to make the poor of the land fail?

It's as if Lee is conducting a call-and-response with social injustice itself. It is as if, through his music, he is trying to create a new alphabet that can spell what only the winds of eternity can express.

Seldom has the voice of reason sung so beautifully.

Kathy Wainwright and the Art of Transition

Maura — Thu, 19 May 2011 17:47:59 GMT

I've always been lousy at transitions. I was probably the only kid in Elyria who was sad each and every last day of school. As an adult, I didn't get any better at making transitions. I'm so terrible at transitions, I can't even handle them when they belong to someone else. Case in point: Kathy Wainwright's farewell concert.

Kathleen Olear Wainwright is the most senior music educator in the Elyria City Schools. She is also Director of the Elyria High School Orchestra. A talented cellist who grew up in Parma, Kathy earned both her undergraduate and graduate degrees at Bowling Green State University. She has been a member of numerous ensembles and community orchestras of distinction.

She once told me about the day she interviewed for a position in the music department at the Elyria City Schools. She and her mother, Helen, went to Friendly's Restaurant to discuss the opportunity. "I'm going to accept this offer," she decided, "because I really think I can make a difference here." I admire that kind of idealism.

It's hard to believe that more than 32 years have passed since that definitive conversation. In that period of time, Kathy has gifted Elyria with her vision and her tenacity, and has brought elegance to our community and confidence to our kids. She most certainly made a difference in the lives of many, many young people.

She also made a huge difference in the life of someone else I hold dear to me: Mark Wainwright, my friend from high school days. Mark had returned to our alma mater as a music educator and band director, adding his expertise to EHS's hallowed music tradition. Kathy and Mark met. They fell in love. They married. And the history of the world as I know it was changed.

In the interest of full disclosure, you should know that Kathy is so dear to me, she deserves a category of friendship that is uniquely hers. I'm not even going to make a pretense of objectivity in this Blog. We have held each other's newborns. We have shared zillions of cookouts and dinner parties. For 18 years we have lived only one half of a mile from one another. No matter whose birthday cake was being sliced, we sliced it together. It wouldn't be Christmas without her and her family. When I started a book club many years ago, she was a charter member. We have shared more cups of tea and uncorked more bottles of wine than we could count. I love her kids; she loves mine. We even babysit one another's dogs, for Pete's sake.

At any rate, the concert was incredible. Kathy had challenged her students to perform some very ambitious music. It was thrilling to hear a full orchestral performance of Fanfare for the Common Man (Copland); the Centennial Overture (Hofeldt); and Beethoven's Finale from Symphony No. 9. She is a delight to watch, for she knows what she is about. Her students are attentive, relaxed, and well-rehearsed. When the students have come to the point of a concert performance, she believes that their experience is more important than ours, and so she focuses on communicating what I would call 'performance joy'. I could hear the joy in their music.

Kathy's professionalism ensured that she had her emotions well under control for this transitional life event. Not me. Oh no. I took it upon myself to emote for the both of us. That is why, when she prepared to mount the conductor's podium for the last piece and I saw my friend Mark slide out from backstage to assume a stance at the microphone, I was officially approaching train-wreck status.

The house lights were brought up. And there stood Mark, the heir apparent. Having been named the next Orchestra Director, Mark's job was to convey gratitude for three decades of devotion. Somehow, he was to honor 32 years of grit, determination, patience, poise, and grace.

Rotsa ruck, kid.

That he was able to get through a gracious presentation without the total breakdown to which he was entitled is to Mark's everlasting credit.

First, he introduced School Superintendent Paul Rigda, who spoke admiringly of Kathy's career. Then, Mark presented Kathy with certification that a paver chiseled with her name will appear in the high school's new construction. Student representatives placed a bouquet of red roses in her arms.

Together, audience and performers gave a long and lusty standing ovation.

I had settled into a vibe in which I was feeling proud of and happy for my two friends. But the last composition would prove to be my undoing. The dramatic, hauntingly beautiful tradition in honor of the outgoing seniors was to blame.

The combined Chamber and Symphonic Orchestras played the Ashoken Farewell by Paul Unger. The mood that was established was reflective and somber, like a hymn . . . and like a spiritual . . . and like an ode. Right in the middle of a phrase, one musician, a senior, stopped playing, rose from her chair, and, carrying her instrument, quietly walked off stage. As the student departed, the stage lights were dimmed. As soon as she was gone, another senior musician stopped bowing, rose from his chair, and left the orchestra, disappearing into the wings. Again, the lights were dimmed. One by one, the seniors moved on, thereby delegating the playing of the music to their younger constituents. The stage lights were successively dimmed with each departure.

I was mesmerized. What a beautiful way to give tribute to the seniors. What a wonderful way to help the members of the orchestra transition into its new entity. I was so totally enchanted, so completely in the present moment, I never anticipated what happened next.

Now playing in semi-darkness, the musicians continued to follow the baton in Kathy's graceful right hand until, as if delivered on a cloud, the shadowy silhouette of their new director was suddenly standing beside the conductor's podium. And then he reached up and she reached down and this amazing couple wrapped their arms around one another for half a measure. I emitted a little cry of pain, so moved was I by the fragile beauty of the moment.

There was a heart-stopping passing of the baton.

For one brief instant two figures melted into one as Kathy stepped down and Mark ascended the podium. Then, without a backward glance, Kathy vanished while the new Elyria High School Orchestra Director helped his students finish the Farewell.

I thought alchemy went the way of the unicorn. I was wrong. What I had just witnessed was alchemical.

My life with Kathy and Mark and their children, Lauren and Elliot, raced through my entire being and I feared that my knees would buckle. Tears were flowing freely down my face.

And then I realized that my friend and I are jointly undergoing a seminal transition. I understand now that Kathy and I are no longer raising our families together. What we are doing is growing old together.

Make Way for Ducklings

Maura — Fri, 29 Apr 2011 22:48:49 GMT

Robert McCloskey's Mr. and Mrs. Mallard nested on the banks of the Charles River in Boston, Massachusetts. A kindly policeman named Michael stopped traffic so that the proud parents and their offspring could cross the highway in safety.

Earlier this week, I ran an errand at the University Mall in Mishawaka, Indiana, not too far from Notre Dame. It was 8:45 p.m. and hard to see, for dusk was nearly finished with the task of dousing the last rays of sunlight. I parked my car and then hustled toward the mall entrance. Suddenly, I saw a sight that made me stop in my tracks: Mr. and Mrs. Mallard, II.

When I paused to admire them, Mr. Mallard rose huffily from his perch beside his ladylove.

Puffing out his chest and clucking softly, he bravely acted as bait to draw me toward him and away from his family.

Protective and game, he remained as far from Mrs. Mallard as he could without actually stepping off the curb down to the asphalt.

I've been worried about these two ever since.

There should be, I thought, a flexible plastic temporary fence set up all around the perimeter to cordon off the area. Unseeing children might hop up the curb and accidentally kick the nest, and I considered calling the mall administrators to ask for intervention on the behalf of the Mallard family.

However, I countered in a self-conducted debate, it is possible that a fence would only bring more attention to these defenseless creatures. In any case, the act of installing a fence might stress the ducks so much, it would harm more than help them.

Water is another issue. When it stops raining (IF it ever stops raining), how will Mrs. Mallard get a drink? How long before dehydration sets in? And, when the ducklings hatch, their first instinct is to walk to some kind of a body of water for swimming lessons. How in the world will Mr. and Mrs. Mallard manage what should be a triumphant coming-out parade when they have to cross acres of asphalt, all the while dodging thousands of moving vehicles? Cars whizz to and fro even as I stood there pondering their predicament. I imagined newborn ducklings and how impossible it will be to keep them safe, and I shuddered. The thought of fuzzy Innocence flattened beneath SUVs pulling into parking spaces mere inches from this birthing facility made my stomach lurch, and I suddenly felt ill. Wistfully, I imagined bringing a little baby pool to their island, at least until the ducklings were old enough to be moved to a wildlife habitat.

What bothered me most of all, however, is the thought of some sadistic idiot deliberately wreaking terror and death upon these courageous parents who are making the best of a bad environment. Anyone who is trying to raise children in the inner cities will recognize this issue; they face the same Sisyphusian challenge every day.

The following day, just before starting my trip back home, I insisted that my son and I pay one last visit to the mall. I came armed with a bag full of bread. I snapped a few pictures and scattered bread all over the island, making certain to toss pieces near Mrs. Mallard so that she could eat without rising from her nest.

It would be nice if there were a kindly policeman named Michael who would watch over this family, as there had been for the McCloskey ducklings, rock stars made famous in the Caldecott Medal-winning classic Make Way For Ducklings. But Make Way For Ducklings was published in 1941. Sad to say, these are different times. Today, for example, the torture and killing of newborn kittens are actions that simply represent currency that will buy cell phone entertainment or a few minutes of YouTube fame for needy sickos. (See: Kitten murders.)

I have learned that the Mallards are entitled to protection under Federal Law. They can neither be harmed nor possessed. Once a mother has laid her eggs, it is against the law for anyone to attempt to move or disrupt the nest. My daughter suggests that maybe a sign detailing the special status of this family should be posted. I think that's a good idea.

We're the ones who paved Paradise and put in a parking lot. When, despite all odds, former residents of Paradise move back into the neighborhood, the very least we ought to do is recognize the courage and beauty they represent and, accordingly, protect them with all of our many resources.

Parenting At Its Best

Maura — Fri, 22 Apr 2011 10:23:33 GMT

I cannot resist posting this wonderful video clip - perfect for Easter weekend - captured by Brittany Morehouse, reporter for WUSA Channel 9 in Washington, D.C.

Family Unit through thick or thin --- traffic, that is.

Dr. Aurora Miclat: Everything About Her Is A Love Song

Maura — Mon, 18 Apr 2011 12:56:12 GMT

This is a story, a long story, about Aurora Miclat, M.D., a woman I adore. It might also be considered a story about two unseen characters, the first an angelic influence and the second a sinister presence.

The first invisible character is Aurora's mother, a woman I never met and whose name I do not know. Her death marked the beginning of my friendship with Aurora. I believe that I would have loved this lady. Seeing her through the lens of her daughter, I know that she must have been extraordinary. Besides - I admire the inspired perfection of the name she chose for her child.

To the Romans, Aurora was the goddess of dawn. The name comes from the Latin aurum, meaning gold, as in brightness. In Metamorphoses, the Roman poet Ovid drew a word image of an energetic young woman who was always first to rise. He envisioned her tossing flowers as, tracing a pastel arc through the sky, she banished Night to another realm. A purple mantle streamed from her shoulders as she escorted Sun into the new day. Appropriately, on 13 April 2011, when seventy-seven friends, family members, and I arrived at The Elyria Country Club, we saw our very own Aurora exquisitely dressed in purple and gold.

She is tiny, our Aurora. Tiny like the dancer in a little girl's musical jewelry box. She is sprightly, delicate, and fine, but she is also a walking portmanteau, for her vivace personality fills a crowded room. Unsurprisingly, then, when I made my way into the dining room, I sensed her presence. There was elegance all around, yes, but it had been animated by the impish vitality that dances in Aurora's eyes. I watched her twirl among her guests until she spotted me and rushed over as if I were The One for whom she had been waiting. She is gifted at making people feel special.

Round tables topped with ivory linens had been arranged just so in a room overlooking a velvety, verdant golf course. Each table was festooned with perky tulips that bobbed from grassy saucers. Aurora confessed that she had put her florists through their paces to get the centerpieces just right. Two dry runs were nixed before they achieved her vision. "I want it to look like a garden," she instructed. She had planned every detail of the dinner with this kind of meticulous perfectionism, for she derived joy in the process of precision.

Aurora's husband, Dr. Romeo Miclat, whose practice specializes in nephrology and internal medicine, is as accomplished a photographer, as he is a physician. With his big daddy Nikon in hand, Romeo did his best to shadow this hummingbird of a wife. When their son Joseph and his wife, Marie, both attorneys-at-law, arrived the glamour quotient skyrocketed, for Joseph and Marie had had the great good sense to provide Aurora with two grandchildren. Precocious Madeline, five years old, and pixyish Kiki, still just a preschooler, looked angelic in fuchsia empire-waist, billowing-skirted creations chosen for them by their grandmother. Son David, whose career is in music and film and who lives in Florida, worked the crowd as he alternately wielded digital and video cameras.

Pressed to sum it all up in one word, I suppose I would choose glorious. Maybe even radiant.

And how could this be? Under the circumstances, how could this elation be?

For this was no cocktail party. This was the last in a succession of special home gatherings that had been organized by friends. This was a Prayer Dinner. Aurora, a non-smoker, has been diagnosed with Stage IV lung cancer - a diagnosis that hit this clean-living woman like lightening coming from a clear blue sky.

Enter: the second unseen character in this story.

As an ominous presence in anyone's story, cancer is right up there at the top of the list. But behind Lorain County cancers is something even more wicked and base: the rumors behind the tumors. There is a distinctive pattern of disingenuousness in what should be an honest dialogue between government health officials and citizens about radon and toxic waste in Lorain County. Please read:

Toxic Horror Lurking Beneath Elyria

and

Cancer in Paradise

According to the Surgeon General's Office, radon is the second leading cause of lung cancer and may cause as many as 20,000 deaths from lung cancer each year. According to State Radon Officer Chuck McCracken, the average national indoor level of radon is 1.3 pCi/L. The average indoor radon level of Lorain County is 4.6 pCi/L. Please read:

What is radon?

Aurora's response to her devastating diagnosis was to add prayer to the medical treatment model, including surrounding herself with loved ones at a Prayer Dinner. Have you ever heard of a Prayer Dinner? I had not. But what an inspiring way to express one's faith! This evening represented a precious chance to pray both with and for the goddess-of-brightness in our lives.

The Reverend Dr. Richard A. Gonser of St. Julie Billiart Catholic Church in North Ridgeville, Ohio, presided. A service entitled Blessing of the Sick had been hand-written and printed on pink paper, and these lay at each place setting so that all guests might participate. We began by praising God and recounting the healing work of Jesus. Participating was not always easy. For example, praying "In this celebration we shall entrust our sick sister, Aurora, to the care of the Lord, asking that He will enable her to bear her pain and suffering." was tough. I felt almost as though I was standing beside Aurora as we stared together into the abyss.

The Readings, Isaiah 38 and the Book of Ecclesiastes 3:2-8, brought home the conundrum that is faith: the incomprehensible duality of hope and acceptance existing simultaneously in our souls.

When we lifted our voices to sing "On Eagle's Wings" there may have been some dry eyes among us, but I couldn't say for sure. I was too blinded by my own tears to be a reliable witness.

Father Gonser invited Aurora to join him at a pretty little altar that had been set up in front of a fireplace. She stood there looking as small and earnest as a child. Blessing her with Holy Oil, he bestowed the anointing of the sick. A reading of Psalm 23 followed. The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want . . .

We recited a Prayer of Blessing: Lord Jesus, who went about doing good and healing all, we ask you to bless our dear friend, Aurora. Give her strength in body, courage in spirit, and patience with whatever pain she may experience. Please Lord, let her recover her health, so that, restored to the Christian community, she may continue to joyfully praise your name, for you live and reign forever and ever.

The fuchsia-colored apples of Aurora's eye exhibited some of their grandmother's stellar courage. In front of what must have seemed a cavernous room, they sang a love song dedicated to her. Holding tightly her baby sister's hand, Madeline adroitly handled a wireless microphone, remembered all the words, and sweetly acknowledged the warm applause with curtsies. Kiki, perhaps thinking her voice had not been heard, perhaps believing that big sister was supposed to go first, then gave a whispered reprise performance as Madeline generously stood to the side. I thought Aurora was going to levitate, she was so proud. If Hollywood had been involved, the movie would have ended right then and there.

Every moment was poignant. My heart was already full to the top when Aurora - such a natural, I told her she could have been a motivational speaker - came to the podium. She told us that in life's journey, where we begin, where we are right now, and where we end up are less important than the people we meet along the way. She thanked everyone for being part of her journey and for respecting her need to keep her home her sanctuary. She also shared a precious memory from when she left the Philippines for America.

"Romeo and I had been doctors for one year and we had been married for one month when we came to this country. My Mama took me aside and told me that there are all kinds of people in this world - the good, the bad, and the ugly -and she was scared that no one would help me here in America. Well, looking out at all of you, I know that my Mama must be smiling up there in Heaven."

It was a quintessentially generous thing to say. Aurora gifted us with credit for having allayed her mother's worries.

I couldn't help but smile as I dabbed my eyes because it was her mother who had brought Aurora into my own life. How fitting that her mother would be here with us on this night.

It all started many years ago, when a nasty sinus infection brought me to Dr. Romeo's office. In the course of treating me, he mentioned that his wife had just lost her mother.

Now, I already idolized this man because in January 1986 I witnessed him perform an act of gallantry that revealed the essence of his goodness. I was at the bedside of my feisty mother-in-law, Marilyn Zagrans, who, against all odds, had conducted a very dignified argument with Stage IV lung cancer. The time had finally come, however, when the tumors were to have the last say. Dr. Miclat, who was relatively new in the community, was her physician. They knew each other very well, for they had been through a great deal together. He had won her eternal gratitude with the compassionate care he had given her aging father. Mere weeks after she buried her father, Romeo was grieved to tell Marilyn she was terminal. With the aid of his superior medical care, she turned a six-month death sentence into two + years spent in excellent quality of life.

Marilyn never complained. But on 14 January 1986, twenty-four hours before her death, she was entering a completely new world of pain. I summoned her nurse. I was dumbfounded when the nurse disapprovingly lectured her about requesting pain medication forty-five minutes before it was due. I called my husband, who called Dr. Miclat, who appeared almost immediately at the hospital.

He tended Marilyn with compassion and then shot me a look that said, Don't worry. I'll take care of things. He motioned to the nurse and they left together. I watched from the doorway as they strolled down the hall. I saw him bend his head toward her and heard him gently explaining, "You don't know this woman, so you have no way of knowing how brave she has been. But she has been very, very courageous. So when she says that she needs pain medication . . . " In that moment I realized how special he is. He is everything that patients, family members, and medical caregivers need him to be. Kind. Firm. A leader.

And so, though I had never met his wife, I felt that I simply had to reach out and express my sympathy. As soon as I left the office, I wrote a card and arranged for a vase of flowers to be sent to their residence. Aurora paid me a visit not long afterward. In an expression of appreciation for having reached out to her, she brought me hand-embroidered table linens that she bought in the Philippines when she went home for her mother's funeral. I never dreamed that my gesture would mean so much to her. Nor that it would gain my family and me the treasures of a multi-generation friendship. As the years rolled by, the Doctors Miclat would build a huge practice and a cutting edge kidney dialysis facility. They would host many glittering parties. They traveled around the world. But they have remained just as authentic as they were when we first met them.

Aurora's mother, then, is the knot that anchors the woven tapestry of our friendship. At this Prayer Dinner, Mama was once again weaving into the fabric of my own life still more threads of this beautiful daughter who has brightened the world.

Romeo moved discreetly around the room so that he could capture on film his wife's every move. The pain on his face was so naked, looking into his eyes felt somehow disrespectful. We had a moment alone, and in that brief interlude he seemed to be reading my mind when he spoke of the irony of how lung cancer connected the Miclats and the Zagrans, from then to now. When I said my goodbyes, Aurora fussed over whether I would be safe going home alone and I just shook my head in amazement. That's Aurora: always worrying about everyone else.

Alone with my thoughts, I recalled irony in the lines of another poet, one who had placed Aurora and Romeo together in a scene in one of the greatest love songs ever written:

But all so soon as the all-cheering sun

Should in the furthest east begin to draw

The shady curtains from Aurora's bed,

Away from the light steals home my heavy son.

-William Shakespeare

Romeo and Juliet

Donovan's Prayer

Maura — Mon, 04 Apr 2011 17:04:07 GMT

Animal enthusiasts understand that we may have many pets and we probably will love them all. But over a lifetime of sharing your home with animals, there will appear one particular furry or feathered friend who will capture your heart in a unique way. That creature will inhabit corners of your heart where unclaimed love has languished, unnoticed by all but him. The two of you share something that others do not understand. For me, this special pet is my dog, Donovan.

I'll never forget the moment I first met him. It was a dark and stormy night (it really was) in January 2007. My nineteen-year-old daughter, Julianne, had been visiting a friend in Columbus, Ohio. I noticed the headlights of her car pull into the driveway but when I realized that she was taking an unusually long time to come into the house, I went to investigate. Through a kitchen window, I could see her standing in the rain. I read an intriguing montage of expressions in her face. I saw mischievousness, secrecy, nervousness, anticipation, and delight. Thinking the door was locked I moved to open it for her. When she stepped into the house I understood the montage. Wrapped in her arms was the cutest animal I'd ever seen.

As I looked into his dark, lively, intelligent eyes, this twelve-week-old Schnoodle cocked his head and gave me (I swear this is true because he still does it) a crooked grin. My heart did flips a happy dolphin would envy. From that very first wide-eyed, inquisitive tilt of his little puppy head, Donovan owned me.

You get the picture. This dog is pretty special to me.

That is precisely why it's such a big deal that he fell in the Spirit when Dr. Nemeh prayed over him. Don't laugh. It's true. Donovan asked for, and received, a prayer of his own.

On Sunday, 27 February 2011 (leave it to me to plan a dinner party on Oscar night), about two dozen forgiving folks came to my house. I had invited the employees of my favorite grocery store, Heinen's at Avon Commons, to a 'gratitude dinner' because they had been so supportive through every phase of writing and publishing Miracles Every Day. it seemed only right to thank them with dinner, dessert, and a discussion of my book. Donovan, of course, who takes his hosting duties quite seriously, was very much a presence at the party, and he spent the evening busily endearing himself to these new admirers.

As if on cue, Dr. Issam and Kathy Nemeh arrived just in time for the discussion, surprising all of us. We talked for a long time and it was a very special dialogue.

When we took a break for coffee, dessert, and signing books, one sweet lady whispered in my ear: Do you think that Dr. Nemeh would mind if I ask him to pray over me?

"All you have to do is ask," I told her. "He will never refuse to pray over anyone. This is his life's purpose; go ahead and ask. I'm sure he will be thrilled."

She crossed to the settee where Issam was sitting and asked for a prayer. Just as I predicted, he was happy to oblige. Before I knew it, everyone else followed suit and my dining room rivaled the deli counter on Sunday afternoon. (We could have used that little red machine that spits out numbers.) Not surprisingly, many fell in the Spirit.

After everyone had received a prayer, I asked Kathy and Issam to pray over me. As they moved to either side, Kathy on my left and Issam on my right, I glanced down and saw that Donovan was sitting at my feet. I scooped him up in my arms. I said to Issam, "I want Donovan to have a prayer, too--is that okay?" Kathy groaned good naturedly. She battles a deep-seated fear of dogs and cats every time she comes to my house.

"Issam," she cracked. "Would you please knock out the dog first so that I don't have to worry about him?" All three of us giggled. When Donovan tried to make friends with Kathy by licking her she pulled away, said, "Ewww!", laughed, and Issam began to chuckle too. It was really rather comical. I placed Donovan on the floor and turned to talk to Issam.

Donovan, however, had other ideas. He leaped up and down like a circus dog, as if he were on a pogo stick. Boing! Boing! Boing! He was jumping as high as my shoulders. I didn't know what to do or say. He was definitely being a nuisance.

"Do you need to go outside?" I asked.

Nope. He kept right on leaping. Boing! Boing! Boing!

Suddenly, I got it.

"Do you want more prayer?"

Maintaining eye contact with me, Donovan immediately sat down, perfectly in control, quite the gentleman.

"Do you want Dr. Nemeh to keep praying over you?"

Though he quivered with intensity, Donovan remained seated, looking up at me all the while with anxious, pleading eyes.

Issam and I looked at each other in utter astonishment.

I bent down, picked up my little dog, and the rest of the world disappeared. Issam reached his hands toward Donovan, already praying. Donovan's head slammed against my left arm and there it stayed. His body was heavy and motionless. He had fallen in the Spirit.

I murmured to Issam while he prayed. I told him how much I love this little guy and that I worry about him running into the path of a car. I was thinking about how short are the lives of dogs, and how so many of them get cancer. Issam continued praying. Suddenly joy lit his face. I had seen that joy many times before, and I knew what it meant. It meant that someone was getting a miracle.

"He is getting it!" exclaimed Issam. "He is getting the healing!"

I literally held my breath. I wasn't sure what healing Donovan might be getting and I wasn't going to risk spoiling the moment by asking, but whatever it was, I was thankful for it.

The prayer continued until, finally, Donovan lifted his head. He looked at me and in his eyes I saw gratitude. Sure enough, his little tongue came out and he gave both Issam and me a kiss.

I placed Donovan back on the floor. This time, he did not jump, not even once. He was satisfied. More than anything, this obvious contentment told me that what I had thought was happening was, indeed, exactly what had occurred.

I looked up. I saw my son, Dillon, and a huge circle of friends, all of whom were motionless and mesmerized. Tears were brimming in several pairs of eyes. It seemed to me that right then, time was suspended. We had just witnessed a remarkable thing, a sacred thing. One of God's creatures had recognized the beauty of the Holy Spirit and, having had just a small taste of Her healing power, had found a way to communicate, "I want more! I want more of that!"

How can anyone doubt that the Holy Spirit is real? For that matter, how can anyone doubt that animals have souls? Clearly, they have emotions and emotions, after all, are mirrors of our souls.

I believe, to quote a traditional Irish song, that all God's creatures have a place in His Choir. And I am in agreement with Mahatma Gandi, who wrote in his Autobiography, "I hold that, the more helpless a creature, the more entitled it is to protection by man from the cruelty of man."

Winter Storm Followed by Avalanche

Maura — Wed, 02 Feb 2011 16:47:39 GMT

I've been grateful that Miracles Every Day has sold as well as it has since its release on 15 June 2010. It has traveled via word of mouth from one enthusiastic reader to another. --Word of mouth, that is, plus the several hundred copies I have bought and given to my own contacts. I will not divulge the exact number in case my husband reads this Blog.

Yesterday, Dr. Mehmet Oz introduced the subject of my book, Issam Nemeh, M.D., to viewers of his nationally syndicated Dr. Oz Show. One way of categorizing the effect upon Miracles Every Day is to say that things got quite a bit mouthier. Another way is to say that it caused an avalanche.

The taped program was originally scheduled to air on 1/11/11. That seemed like a lucky date, and I was pleased. However, the shooting of Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords caused the show to be bumped. Kathy Nemeh's reaction was characteristically cool. "All in God's time," she said with equanimity. "Everything works out exactly as it is meant to. Besides, great things have always happened to us in the month of February."

She's right. For example, in 2007, Cleveland's WKYC-TV 3 aired a week long special about Dr. Nemeh on "Good Company," a morning talk show hosted by Elyria's own Andrea Vecchio. The special, "Prayers of the Heart", aired during mid-February. A winter storm slammed Northeastern Ohio. Schools, medical offices, and businesses were closed. Those normally at work or school were home and able to turn on their television sets. Many sat spellbound before this in-depth examination of a physician who says there is no separation between science and spirituality. A multitude of healings and miracles occurred to viewers who followed up by attending a healing service or by making an appointment with the doctor.

Interestingly, the same phenomenon happened yesterday.

The brutal winter storm that sacked the mid-West closed schools and sent people scurrying home from work early. In Chicago, the Dr. Oz Show airs at 4:00 in the afternoon. Many, many more people were able to watch the show than is usually the case.

Even an impartial observer has to pause at this point and wonder: just what is going on here? This seems less like a coincidence, more, to quote my dear friends Cartie Lyle Antonelli and her brother, the late Jim Lyle, a God-incidence.

Dr. Oz devoted the first two segments of yesterday's show to "opening the door" into a forum in which a dialogue will be conducted about the role of spirituality in the art and science of medical care. To help him kick off this conversation, Dr. Oz chose Dr. Nemeh as his first guest speaker. My daughter, Juli, humorously, but insightfully, perhaps put it best when she wrote on Facebook, "It's a doctor showdown."

In Cleveland, the Dr. Oz Show airs at 10:00 in the morning. We at the Zagrans Zoo watched with interest, then went about our daily lives. By three o'clock in the afternoon, my editor sent me a note telling me that my book was ranked at #611 on Amazon.com Books. I wrote back, asking, innocently, "Is that good?" He informed me that, the previous day, my book had been ranked at #16,000. That's a respectable position considering that there are millions of other titles strung out behind my hopeful little book.

As the afternoon and evening progressed, Miracles Every Day, like the little blue engine that could, continued to climb the Amazon mountain. When I closed my eyes upon a most astonishing day, it was perched jauntily at #163. I'm told that, as I sit here writing, a certain white-jacketed book is shouldering its way (against all odds) into the Top 100. (I keep thinking, I hope it remembers its manners. In my mind, I see that pretty little jacket cover politely asking, "Excuse me, please, can I get by?" as it passes the other titles. But then, you have to remember that I'm a mother of six. Obviously, I'm a little weird.)

Webster's dictionary highlights four different aspects of the word "miracle". The first, "an effect or extraordinary event in the physical world that surpasses all known human or natural powers and is ascribed to a supernatural cause" is what I wrote about in my book. The second, "such an effect or event manifesting or considered as a work of God" is what I see at every turn of my head. The birds fluttering at the feeders outside my study window are little miracles. Life is a miracle. Love is a miracle. We all are miracles.

But the third definition of miracle--"a wonder, a marvel"--is what I witnessed yesterday.

Thank you, all of you, for trusting that Miracles Every Day is a book that will make a difference in your life.

Those rapidly-changing numbers reflect all of you who were inspired to act upon something you saw yesterday. Maybe you were touched by Dr. Nemeh and the messages conveyed by his gift of faith. Maybe you are a seeker in search of hope, or love, or meaningful connection. Maybe Dr. Oz was right on target to open up a conversation about the proper place for prayer in a world filled with people who are suffering. If that is so, please visit Dr. Oz's Web site and tell him. Reward him for his courage and pledge your support of future efforts in continuing the dialogue.

Wake-up Whistle

Maura — Tue, 25 Jan 2011 17:00:00 GMT

It is tempting to allow life to charge forward as if our moments are like boxcars clamped together into one great, endless train. We slip into routines that distance us from the felt experience of life, as if we are not really inside our own train but are watching as its tiny image chug-chugs on some distant horizon. The rote performance of our customary tasks is a gentle rhythm that lulls us from feeling the immediacy of new moments. Distracted from an awareness of the joys of the here and now, our inattentiveness has the effect of pulling us from feelings of attachment to our personal destinies, as if we have delegated to some invisible conductor the privilege of steering our course.

Once in a while, however, seemingly unrelated events happen synchronously, and the very contemporaneousness is itself a dazzling explosion that shakes us from our complacency.

Today, for example, is a day that my dear friend and fellow souljourner, Dawn Neely-Randall, marks with emotions so wide and inexpressible, the sky itself is a space that crowds them, for today is the first anniversary of the death of her husband, the love of her life, John Randall.

John was something. To know him was indeed a privilege. To see them together was a delight. (See: Eternal Flame)

For those of us who love Dawn, the Year of Firsts has been a shared journey. Sometimes, we gave her space. Sometimes, we appeared at her door. We called, asked how she was doing, and then listened. In essence, we hitched as many boxcars of our lives to her train as could be done without becoming simply additional weight that she had to pull.

And so here it was. The First Anniversary. I woke up feeling as if I could let out the breath that I've been holding since Monday, 25 January 2010.

But . . . maybe not.

Early this morning, my telephone rang. It was Ronald Lane, a gentleman my family and I met shortly after he escaped from Hurricane Katrina by fleeing to Lorain, Ohio, where his mother, a beautiful woman named Grace, lived alone. He had worked as an artisan in the French Quarter for decades, but his life-sustaining career was dismantled by the drowning of New Orleans.

He's a character. Once you have met Ronald Lane, you'll never forget him, and once he decides you are his friend, he'll remember you in his prayers forever. He's as loyal as he is indefatigable. The Zagrans family expanded to include him in our circle.

We helped Ronald as much as we could. He delighted in the laptop that we were able to give him. My sons spent countless hours with him, teaching him how to email and peruse the Internet, which proved to be a good instructor for an eager student. He spent hour after hour researching far-away places, such as Egypt, that have always held his fascination.

"I've been going on all kinds of trips," he told me with a chuckle in his voice. "I've been traveling all over the world with my computer!" Shyly, proudly, he mentioned that his Internet studies were improving his reading skills.

My sons also set him up with a free Web site. They photographed his jewelry and inventions and placed them on the site. Ronald was hopeful that an Internet presence would be able to replace, somewhat, his physical presence at the French Market. But the business aspect of on-line marketing was too tough for him to manage.

He stayed in Ohio for a couple of years and then, dipping a toe into his former life, returned to New Orleans. He was hopeful that he would be able to reestablish his jewelry making career. It was a struggle. He never seemed to catch a break. But he always kept in touch. Every time we spoke, Ronald expressed undoubting faith in the journey, faith that God had everything under control. He never failed to thank me for my friendship. "I love you, Maura," he would say, laughing, "and there ain't nothin' you can do about it!"

In November, Ronald received the kind of news that changes life forever. His mother was in the final stages of lung cancer. She needed his help.

He called me. As soon as I heard him speak I knew that something was very wrong. If a voice could buckle, his voice was on its knees. By the time we hung up, he was calm. I think he just needed to know that he had someone who could be there for him, just as he would be there for his mother.

And so he came back to Ohio. He was a willing servant in the face of his mother's incapacitation. He told her, 'Mom, you can't use your legs to get around anymore; I will be your legs. Your arms don't have the strength they used to have; let me be your arms. I am an extension of your legs and arms. Whatever you want, whatever you need, you just tell me.' He cooked for Grace, he bathed her, and he kept her house as she wished it to be kept.

Two weeks ago, Grace had to be hospitalized. Ronald beat back Fear. He would not allow It to own him. He knew that he needed to be strong for Grace.

This morning, then, when I heard his voice on the other end of the phone, I felt hope rise in me because he sounded so different. He sounded elated. There must be good news, I thought.

"I wanted to call and tell you that my mother transitioned," he said. "And she's just fine, and I'm just fine."

"Transitioned," I repeated, more a question than statement. I wasn't quite sure what he meant. I thought that she had improved so much, she had been taken out of intensive care and put into step-down care. That is when I learned that, for this faith-filled man who has had little more than nothing for most of his life, death truly and simply is a transition.

And so there it is: A brilliant explosion of synchronicity that shakes my soul into reflection upon the important things in life. For Dawn, today is the end of The First Year. For Ronald, the same date is the beginning of The First Year.

For me, the day escorts me out of Dawn's First Year and into Ronald's. I am thereby blessed with another chance to be someone's friend as he confronts a huge hole in the world. It is also another example of how mysteriously synchronized life events are perhaps meant to prod us from complacency and distractedness.

Connecting with Amy Miller on WSNO 1450 AM in Vermont

Maura — Sat, 08 Jan 2011 21:00:00 GMT

Connecting with Amy Miller, Podcast

2/1/11: The Dr. Oz Show Features Dr. Nemeh

Maura — Tue, 04 Jan 2011 10:54:23 GMT

Tuesday, 1 February 2011, Dr. Mehmet Oz will introduce to the nation Dr. Issam Nemeh, who is the subject of my book Miracles Every Day. You will not want to miss this episode of Dr. Oz's television show, for you will be finally able to see and hear from a man whose faith has connected thousands and thousands of individuals with miracles and healings that defy medical explanation. It is an important story because it is an authentic one. I could not be more pleased that Dr. Oz is breaking this story to a national audience.

The broadcast will show scenes from Dr. Nemeh's daily routine. A crew of five cameramen and a producer came to Ohio to capture video footage of Dr. Nemeh at home, in his office treating patients, and at a healing service.

Dr. Nemeh also joined Dr. Oz in his television studios at the Rockefeller Center in New York City. The two physicians chatted as the cameras rolled. Dr. Oz also interviewed a couple of Dr. Nemeh's patients and their physicians, who testified that medicine alone cannot account for their miracles.

Set up your recording system. You'll want to have this one on tape.

After you have viewed the broadcast, I'd love to hear from you. Does Dr. Nemeh match the person you imagined as you were reading Miracles Every Day? Does he sound like you thought he would? Is he all that I described--or maybe more? Write to me and tell me what you think.

New Year's Eve 2010

Maura — Fri, 31 Dec 2010 18:29:53 GMT

Though I'm not one to regret, I am a little sorry to see 2010 go. I can think of no other year in my life that is more fairytale-esque than 2010. A dreamlike montage of memories rolls from January through tonight complete with special effects fog and an orchestral sound track. It all seems too good, and too beautiful, to be true.

Up until now, I've been more or less quietly creating who I am. The subterranean me has been forming and fermenting while my primary tasks in life have been about performing roles that are created by who I am in relation to others. The view by which I've been seeing the world has been more behind-the-lens than it has been in-front-of-the-camera. Even I defined myself more by my relationships than by my own identity! I am a daughter; a sister; a student; a friend; a wife; a mother.

This year, however, was a virtual cocoon from which the person I am all by myself has emerged. I am feeling amazed because 2010 represents a kind of an unveiling, or a coming-out ball, as if the interior me has only now been presented to the outside world. What has happened has much less to do with the roles I have played than who I am deep inside. To become an author, one must allow thoughts and feelings burble up from the mind and soul. Evidence of who one is appears on the printed page. It's a bit risky, all that exposing of one's self, but the calling to write is one that cannot be denied.

It feels a little weird to be not just someone else's somebody. I'm not just a mother of six any more. I'm not just somebody's wife, or friend, or sister. I'm an author.

But it also feels very good. And so, as I stand back and observe the butterfly that emerged from the cocoon that is this past calendar year, I'm okay with the colors, the wingspan, and the flight of that new creature.

Thank you for journeying along with me. I couldn't have arrived here without you. I wouldn't have wanted to.

Seeking the Light, Part 3

Maura — Mon, 13 Dec 2010 17:00:00 GMT

When Ruset and Valentina Patrascu arrived home from Toledo, Valentina booted up the computer to search the Internet for information on Dr. Nemeh. There was plenty to be found: articles published in Northeastern Ohio newspapers; blogs; testimonials; and video footage of television coverage of Dr. Nemeh's most dramatic public appearances. Most important, Valentina read on the doctor's own Web site (www.drnemeh.com and www.pathtofaith.com) that there would be a public healing service on May 13, Mother's Day, at St. Bernadette's Church in Westlake, Ohio. She and Ruset decided that they would do whatever it took to attend that healing service.

The following day, Ruset and Valentina were taking a walk in Linden Park, a playground not far from their home. A certain look crossed over Valentina's face; Ruset had seen that look many times, and it always meant that she was up to something.

"Let's go see his office," Valentina said with a sparkle in her eyes. There was no question whose office she was referring to. Ruset smiled. She was up to something!

They turned North and walked four-tenths of a mile to Center Ridge Road. Here, they turned West and walked five-tenths of a mile to the Executive Club Office Building. Once inside, they studied the directory and learned that Dr. Nemeh's office suite is on the fourth floor. They pushed the button to the elevator and waited.

When the doors slid open, a man stepped out and headed for the exit. Valentina knew in a flash that the man was Dr. Nemeh himself. She and Ruset stepped into the elevator. When the doors closed, she said, "I think that man is Dr. Nemeh."

A few doors down the hall from the elevator, a nameplate on Suite 401 identified Dr. Nemeh's office. They went inside. The waiting room was uncharacteristically empty. After knocking on a closed door within the three-room suite, they were greeted by the scheduling secretary. Valentina explained that they had called the previous night for appointments, and asked if there had been any cancellations for openings sooner than July. The answer was no.

Discouraged, Valentina and Ruset trudged down the hall, pushed the button, and waited for the elevator car. When the doors opened, the same man they had seen before was inside. Once again, they all performed an elevator do-si-do. When the doors closed, Valentina repeated her hunch, saying, "He is the doctor. I think we should go back." They did.

Encountering the gentleman in the hall, Ruset asked, "Are you Dr. Nemeh?" He shook his head yes. Right there, Valentina and Ruset told Dr. Nemeh their whole story. "I'll take you right now," said Dr. Nemeh in response. And he did.

This apparent serendipity is a consistent theme running through the stories of physical, emotional, and spiritual healings that are recounted by his patients. But Dr. Nemeh's decisions about whom to pray over, what to pray for, and how long to pray are not serendipitous. They are inspired, he says, by the pull and influence of the action-oriented Holy Spirit. And, today, the Holy Spirit let him know that Ruset was meant to be prayed over and treated immediately.

Once Ruset was settled in the treatment chair and Dr. Nemeh began performing his initial measurements, Valentina and Ruset explained why they felt led by St. Ignatius of Loyola to this very office. This moment seemed to have stemmed from their exposure to a spiritual hospital in Brazil that had been founded by St. Ignatius's followers. Valentina noted that, right before her eyes, a blue icon of St. Ignatius hung on the wall. She smiled with happiness, for his was her favorite prayer. This place just felt right. She had sensed an enormous amount of Divine energy the minute the elevator doors opened, and now she knew the origin of that energy. It was the doctor's treatment room.

Ruset experienced immediate healing. Before their eyes, Ruset and Valentina watched as Ruset's atrophied leg muscles expanded. Ruset also felt growth in his bones. He was astonished. Valentina was not.

"I filter everything through my soul and heart, not my analytical mind," she explains. "And so I was not at all surprised."

The doctor treated Ruset for more than two hours. Like most of Dr. Nemeh's patients, Valentina and Ruset were not exactly sure of how long the session lasted, for they lost sense of the passage of time. When the session was completed, they stepped out into a waiting room filled to capacity.

As they headed for home, there was a distinct difference in Ruset's gait. Because of the physical healings his body had just undergone, he was emotionally and spiritually uplifted. Now, he was walking, as they say, on cloud nine.

* * * * * *

Ruset returned frequently for treatments throughout the next eighteen months. His arthritic condition improved each time, until he was eventually judged to be a candidate for his resurfacing, a much less extensive surgical alternative than total hip replacement.

His surgeon was astonished at how quickly Ruset recovered.

Meanwhile, Valentina also became Dr. Nemeh's patient. All of her health concerns either were improved or completely healed. She no longer has heart palpitations; the anemia and hot flashes disappeared; her metabolism returned to normal; muscle and join pain and almost all of the back pain vanished; her energy returned; and she could once again sleep well. It was no small thing that the unresolved hurt and unanswered suffering she had carried from Romania into her future also fell away. Finally, her mind, body, and soul were wrapped in peace as cozy as cashmere.

More precious than the healings, however, is the spiritual growth Valentina has undergone from the time of her first appointment and continuing until the present day.

"Dr. Nemeh has helped me so much," she enthuses. "Each session is like going to school, except that these are spiritual lessons. I consider him my mentor. I ask him questions about religion and spirituality and he answers me in ways that make me understand everything so clearly.

"From Dr. Nemeh, I came to understand that suffering is a blessing. To get an instant healing would be nice - a bonus - but I understand now that I am here for a higher purpose. I can take everything that happens to me so much more easily now because I understand that my soul is having a physical experience here on this earth. We are not here just for a miracle, or simply to receive a miraculous healing; we are here to serve humanity. And the spiritual journey makes everything we go through physically worth while."

Valentina's view of 'family' has been broadened since meeting Dr. Nemeh. "We have our physical family. But we also have our spiritual family, and these are our brothers and sisters in Christ. When people feel the same way about Christ, then they understand one another. They speak fewer words because they are talking the same language."

Today, Valentina finds fulfillment in spreading the word about God's healings and miracles as manifested through Dr. Nemeh, who has connected his faith with more than two hundred thousand people in his career as a praying physician. For Dr. Nemeh, it's all about that connection. He sees himself as one who connects the people God has delivered into his life with God Himself.

Two of those people were Valentina and Ruset Patrascu. Dr. Nemeh's unique faith-based relationship with God had the effect of changing their lives for the better. Pain and worry had clouded their mortal existence. That is no longer the case.

They have also benefitted intellectually, emotionally, socially, and spiritually from their association with Dr. Nemeh and his Path to Faith ministry. They attend all his public healing services, which have taken on the function of family events. They also find great satisfaction on carrying the photographs of people living overseas to healing services, because so many receive long distance miracles from Dr. Nemeh's prayers.

Faith establishes a world view that says nothing is accidental. If you believe in God, then you trust that even when you do not understand your journey, there is purpose and intention behind where you are being led. Looking back, then, Valentina can draw a straight line from today all the way back to the moment her parents named her Valentina Luminita. That she has been destined to soar in ever-expansive realms even more limitless than outer space is obvious. Meeting Dr. Nemeh has been a vitally signficant part of her life journey, and he has helped her to fulfill her own life's purpose of spiritual expansion. And then, still with the innocence and trusting heart of a child, she is doing what she can to shine the Light wherever she may go.