camping in tents outside in the freezing cold and whipping wind. When the afternoon arrived, the visionaries gathered in a little room at the home of a local priest and received their “visit.” Each day, a different handful of people was invited into the special chamber to observe, and pray with, the visionaries while everyone else stood outside. My mother and I were among those invited on two separate occasions, and we watched the children with their upturned faces and shining eyes pray and talk to the Holy Mother. While neither Mom nor I saw or heard Mary or witnessed any of the so-called miracles—healing or otherwise—being there was still a very spiritual and profound experience.
When my mom and I returned to Louisiana, my body was exactly as it had been when we left. I hadn’t undergone a miraculous healing or been supernaturally cured, but my parents were still certain that a change might come. So within the year, I was again on a jet flying over the Atlantic on my second visit to Medjugorje.
This time I traveled with my father, who was convinced that the second visit would be the charm. Dad and I prayed every day, but again, we didn’t experience any miracles. We even went to a health spa in another remote Yugoslav village, where my father had been told that a wonder cream was being produced that doctors and hospitals throughout the region applied on burn victims with miraculous results. Allegedly, the cream had powerful curative properties when used regularly— the scars of even the most severely burned were said to magically disappear, leaving the victim’s skin healthy, smooth, and whole.
My dad and I returned to the U.S. with six or seven big jars of the gooey ointment, which my parents faithfully applied to my body each day … that is, until my skin broke out in a rash and developed an infection. The “wonder” cream quickly ended up in the garbage.
Once again, a family member and I had come back from our Yugoslavian pilgrimage with no visible sign of a miracle. Yet although my skin was still scarred, my face was a mess, and my fingers hadn’t grown back, that didn’t mean my family hadn’t been blessed. How could these trips not have been a blessing? After all, we allowed ourselves to be motivated by faith, love, and hope.
I also believe that traveling to Medjugorje had done two very important things: it strengthened the bond between my parents and myself, and it made me think long and hard about what it really meant to experience a miracle.
What I concluded (and again, much of my reasoning was on a subconscious level) was that if a miracle was going to happen to me, I was the one who was going to make it happen. It would still require a great act of faith, but the faith I’d need to have would be in myself—that is, in my own abilities to succeed in whatever I attempted, despite the physical obstacles I faced.
I N THE MONTHS FOLLOWI NG MY RETURN from Medjugorje, I doubled my efforts in all aspects of my life. I tried harder at school, I tried harder at sports, and I tried harder to master the biggest challenge of my young life—tying my shoelaces. Sure enough, I discovered something about myself that I still rely on to this day: by trying harder, putting in an extra effort, practicing, and giving my all to something, I make my own miracles happen. And as strange as it might sound, one of the first places I noticed my ability to make miracles happen was on the basketball court.
My parents encouraged me to play sports—with the exception of football. That’s because my bones remained so brittle after the fire that one solid hit from an averagesize linebacker more than likely would have shattered my arms, legs, and back. Fortunately, the parks and community centers in our area had all sorts of organized sports, and I became pretty skilled at many of them through the years. I was good at soccer and accomplished at baseball, but I excelled at basketball.
Dribbling or passing a basketball
When my mom and I returned to Louisiana, my body was exactly as it had been when we left. I hadn’t undergone a miraculous healing or been supernaturally cured, but my parents were still certain that a change might come. So within the year, I was again on a jet flying over the Atlantic on my second visit to Medjugorje.
This time I traveled with my father, who was convinced that the second visit would be the charm. Dad and I prayed every day, but again, we didn’t experience any miracles. We even went to a health spa in another remote Yugoslav village, where my father had been told that a wonder cream was being produced that doctors and hospitals throughout the region applied on burn victims with miraculous results. Allegedly, the cream had powerful curative properties when used regularly— the scars of even the most severely burned were said to magically disappear, leaving the victim’s skin healthy, smooth, and whole.
My dad and I returned to the U.S. with six or seven big jars of the gooey ointment, which my parents faithfully applied to my body each day … that is, until my skin broke out in a rash and developed an infection. The “wonder” cream quickly ended up in the garbage.
Once again, a family member and I had come back from our Yugoslavian pilgrimage with no visible sign of a miracle. Yet although my skin was still scarred, my face was a mess, and my fingers hadn’t grown back, that didn’t mean my family hadn’t been blessed. How could these trips not have been a blessing? After all, we allowed ourselves to be motivated by faith, love, and hope.
I also believe that traveling to Medjugorje had done two very important things: it strengthened the bond between my parents and myself, and it made me think long and hard about what it really meant to experience a miracle.
What I concluded (and again, much of my reasoning was on a subconscious level) was that if a miracle was going to happen to me, I was the one who was going to make it happen. It would still require a great act of faith, but the faith I’d need to have would be in myself—that is, in my own abilities to succeed in whatever I attempted, despite the physical obstacles I faced.
I N THE MONTHS FOLLOWI NG MY RETURN from Medjugorje, I doubled my efforts in all aspects of my life. I tried harder at school, I tried harder at sports, and I tried harder to master the biggest challenge of my young life—tying my shoelaces. Sure enough, I discovered something about myself that I still rely on to this day: by trying harder, putting in an extra effort, practicing, and giving my all to something, I make my own miracles happen. And as strange as it might sound, one of the first places I noticed my ability to make miracles happen was on the basketball court.
My parents encouraged me to play sports—with the exception of football. That’s because my bones remained so brittle after the fire that one solid hit from an averagesize linebacker more than likely would have shattered my arms, legs, and back. Fortunately, the parks and community centers in our area had all sorts of organized sports, and I became pretty skilled at many of them through the years. I was good at soccer and accomplished at baseball, but I excelled at basketball.
Dribbling or passing a basketball
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