Miracles Happen When You Least Expect Them.

Miracles happen when you least expect them—or maybe it’s luck, or fate?

It was an ordinary Tuesday, except the dryer was on the fritz. So, the jeans were strung across a rope from the dining room buffet to the living room bookcase. I should also mention that a gallon of Country Pink paint was sitting—lid half-on—on a stack of newspapers atop the buffet. (I’d been painting before the dryer died.)

And then there was Frodo—a York Fair goldfish—swimming peacefully in his bowl, completely unaware that things were about to go terribly wrong.

As usual, I was dancing around the living room, music loud, getting in my daily “exercise.” The second verse of Ghost Dance by Robbie Robertson was playing when all hell broke loose.

The top of the buffet collapsed.

The paint can launched into the air.

The jeans came crashing down.

And Frodo—poor Frodo—soared skyward, caught midair in a rain of pink. I watched, helpless, as he splashed down into the tangled denim, disappearing into a puddle of Country Pink on the carpet.

“Help me!” I yelled into the phone at my husband.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked, calm as ever.

“Frodo is in there somewhere!” I cried. (Forget the jeans, the broken buffet, the ruined carpet. I had a fish to save.)

“Well, if the fall didn’t kill him, the paint probably did. Start looking.”

I hung up and began frantically sifting through the wreckage. Five minutes passed. Then ten. Frodo was nowhere to be found.

And then—I spotted him. A small, motionless blob in a deep pink puddle. He wasn’t moving. I’d killed him.

Panicked, I picked up his slimy, paint-covered body and rushed him to the sink. I knew chlorine could kill a fish—but figured you can’t kill a fish twice. I rinsed him gently under running water, laid him on a paper towel, and stared at his lifeless body.

What was I going to tell the kids?

Then I saw the bowl—miraculously unbroken. I cleaned it, filled it with water, and—though it felt absurd—I dropped Frodo in.

He floated.

I walked away, too heartbroken to do anything else, and started the monumental task of cleaning up the mess.

Thirty minutes passed.

At some point, between loading the washer and mopping the floor, I passed the sink—and stopped. Frodo was swimming.

He was alive.

We renamed him Lazareth. He lived for years after that in a bigger, better aquarium, in a much safer spot.

So how do I explain it?

I don’t know. Was it a miracle? Maybe. Does the creator of all things get involved at that level? Perhaps. Was it luck? Fate?

I’ll leave that up to you.

(The image above, developed by ChatGTP)