We all have miracles in our lives. All of us. Of all the miracles in my life, my youngest niece tops the list. She was born on faith, her middle name is Hope, and she’s taught us all so much about love. Love to have the courage to trust in God, the Universe, or whatever you call the higher power you believe in, my family is steeped in the stuff, and I am blessed.

This love is a two way street. We certainly give love, but it’s matched tenfold. I was there the morning she came. My sister had been in the hospital seven weeks by then, giving my niece every possible chance of survival. As they wheeled her out the door, I was keenly aware of just how powerless I truly was as a human being. Nothing I could do would change the outcome of what happened in that delivery room. All I could do was wait and pray.

I helped the nurses move my sister’s things to another room down the hall, grateful for something to do with my hands and feet. The heavy air seemed to move with us. Along with our worries and fears, I was aware of love, love more powerful than I’ve ever experienced. Love enough for whatever the outcome. The waiting seemed endless.

My brother in law came into her new room first. I’ll never forget what he said. “They both made it. The rest is up to God.”

The doctors gave the baby a one percent chance, yet she left NICU on Christmas Eve. My sister and her family drove up today for my cousin’s fiftieth birthday celebration. Their oldest, whom I love just as much, is now seven, and the youngest is three.

I watched them interact today as a family, and I am aware of just how much love can transform us from singular to plural. From alone to part of a whole. They are four very strong, individual people bonded together by something most powerful. What they have endured as family has made me love them all the more. They shine as parents, and my nieces thrive, safe in their environment. Most of all, they will forever be my reminder never to give up hope.