"Miracles Made Possible" - by Commander William Thomas Tucker

SYNOPSIS

Chapter 3
Finding God
Life, as I know it, ends...

Barbara was a beautiful person, inside and out. More importantly, my wife was loved by everyone. She made everybody feel special. She never judged anyone. In fact, she appeared to not have an opinion about anything. And, that was her problem. She had become so accustomed to suppressing her opinions, feelings, etc., that she was always, as long as I knew her, slightly depressed.

The reason was simple and common, but hard to fathom. Her parents had her late in life, and they doted on her as a child. They wouldn’t let her ride a bicycle because, “She might get killed”. They held off letting her get a driver’s license because, “She might get killed.” They butted in and tried to control every aspect of her adult life to the point of interfering with our married life.

Then, tragedy struck. Her mother contracted diabetes in her 70s. Barbara, the “professional” Nurse, would dutifully administer her mother’s injections on a daily basis. About a year later, the doctor discovered inoperable cancer in her mother and gave her just days, maybe weeks, to live. Barbara was crushed! All of a sudden it struck her as a thunderbolt. She had killed her mother! Or, so she thought. She remembered back to her nurses’ training that when an old person comes down with diabetes, it’s not necessarily diabetes, but a harbinger of cancer! She reasoned that if she had remembered this lesson from 15 years before, the doctors may have been able to catch the cancer in time! She was wracked with guilt.

She began to sink herself, almost imperceptibly, day-by-day, after that. After a time, I started noticing patterns. Barbara would wear the same old clothes around the house day-after-day-after-day. Meals that she prepared, that heretofore were a culinary delight, denigrated to hot dogs and beans day-in-and-day-out. Finally, I confronted her and asked what the problem was. She confided in me that she had been seeing psychologists and psychiatrists for the past two years, on the side. She apologized that she had spent all of our life’s savings on them, but announced that they had convinced her that she needed to be committed to a mental institution. The next day she checked herself into a mental hospital at her doctors’ urging. She rapidly deteriorated after that.

Then, my new boss at work started making increasing demands on me, stretching out my already 66 hours of work required time per week. I pleaded for understanding saying that I couldn’t spend more time at work because I had to take care of my family which was going through very hard times. Of course, my employer knew all about my wife’s incarceration in the mental hospital.

During a session with her doctors, they said that maybe a change of scenery might help. I had accumulated six weeks of vacation time over the previous three years. My company was not sympathetic.

Next, it was the Navy’s turn to take a bite out of me. My Commanding Officer said I was getting behind in my work, and ordered me to devote more off-drill time to Navy projects.

I broke out in a rash all over my body. The itching was furious, and constant. I went to a dermatologist. He said that what I had was caused by stress, and that I had “burned off” the protective layer under my skin, and I would most likely suffer from this skin condition for the rest of my life. He gave me some cream to alleviate the itching.

My wife's psychologist went to work on me to convince me that I was mentally unstable and summed up that I, too, had to be incarcerated. I began to believe him. After all, he was a doctor, and a professional in these matters. Right there, in his office, I began to fall apart. I crawled out of his office on my hands and knees, too beaten down to be able to stand. I crawled that way down the corridor of the hospital and down the sidewalk to the parking lot, gasping furtively for air the whole way, not realizing I was hyperventilating.

When I got home, I crawled into bed, sobbing. I wracked my brain over how my beautiful little family could have come to such a sorry pass. I was blaming myself. I had no blame, per se, so my brain started inventing blame.

I lay there in bed with my brain going back over the events of my life trying to find some hope…some way out of the nightmare we were finding ourselves in.

As I reviewed the events of my life, I saw myself as a “cheat”…as a “failure”.

“But..." I argued with myself, looking for any redeeming feature in my worthless life. Still, everywhere I looked, I saw flaws. Flaws in my character. If there weren’t any, I made them up, and felt sorry for myself.

I kept going over and over my life’s events in my mind seeing errors every inch along the way. It was like looking at a movie strip of my life over and over again. Faster and faster the strip repeated itself. Finally, it started forming into a circle of condemnation. The circle began spinning over and over again as I viewed my life’s events, bawling like a baby the entire time. My pillow became soaked with tears of self-pity. I was convinced that my life – our lives – were over…that I would have to check myself into the mental institution in the morning…and the State would take my children off to an orphanage.

When I awoke the next morning, my first thought was a fervent prayer that this had all been a nightmare, and that the world was right again. But, I immediately realized it wasn’t. My bed was soaked. I realized I must having been crying all night long in my sleep.

But then, I became aware – reluctantly at first – of a seemingly little tear in the film strip. At first, I refused to acknowledge it, nor look at it. But, as the events continued to spin, I couldn’t keep ignoring the little pinpoint of light. Finally, I turned my head physically to look square at it, and when I did, the room burst into light…and I saw an event in my life that I had been overlooking.

SAVING GRACE

The event was a magnificent one. It was an event so pure, so perfect, that I could find no fault in my actions in it! I remembered it over and over again searching for a flaw. Trying to find some way to distort it into something ugly, like I had with all of the other events of my life. But, I couldn’t find anything wrong with it!

SANITY!

All of a sudden, things started to fall into place. The world – MY world – started to turn itself right-side up again. “Wait a minute!” I thought. “This is all crap! There’s nothing wrong with me! I don’t have to listen to those loser mind-bending doctors! They certainly aren’t of any help to me, or my wife! Screw them! I’m not committing myself! I’ve got a family to raise! …And, a wife to rescue from that funny farm!!!” I decided to fight back.

My wife was home on a weekend pass. Several hours later, my eldest daughter called me at work. “Where’s Mom?” she asked.

“Isn’t she there?” I stammered.

“No...but the meat is out of the freezer, thawing on the kitchen counter.” she reported.

“Well, she’s got to be there somewhere,” I reasoned. “Look around the house.”

“I have, Dad. She’s nowhere to be found.” she replied.

“Well, just wait. She probably had to run to the store for something.” I said. Then it hit me like a thunderbolt! “What am I saying?! I must be an idiot. If something terrible did happen to her, I can’t let my daughter find her body!” I dialed my brother-in-law who lived only a mile away. I was 17 miles away at work. I was the manager-on-duty that night. I couldn’t leave.

“Dick, rush over to my house,” I told my brother-in-law, “and look for Barbara!” I ordered, and hung up. “What am I doing?” I asked myself, “This is my wife! Screw the shopping center, the job, all of it. I have to be there for my wife!” I jumped in my car, put my pedal to the floor, and sped home running red lights, stop signs, swerving around traffic. The ambulance, with her lifeless body, was pulling away from the front of my house as I pulled up. I fell to pieces. My life ended at that moment. I came close to fainting. I railed against God, country, the cops, the Coroner, anybody, and everybody, within earshot. The pain of the loss was indescribable.

My lovely, sweet wife was dead.

EVERYTHING ENDS

I went back to work. My boss had the audacity to come into my office and flippantly say, “Well, that’s behind you now. Time to get on with your life!” I lost it. I shouted, “You, bastard! You and this stinking company helped kill my wife by not letting me take the vacation I had coming, and now you want to make light of it?!”

“You’re fired,” he said, “Clear out your desk. You’ve got 15 minutes to vacate your office.” and with that, he turned his back on me, and left.

I went home. That week, I received a letter from my, now-former, employer’s health insurer. “Dear Mr. Tucker,” it read, “We are sorry to inform you that your former health policy only covers physical ailments, not mental, so we will not be able to pay the $60,000 mental hospital bill. This is now your responsibility. Please pay it promptly to avoid any further discomforts.”

I called my bank to see about getting a loan against my home to pay the debt. They informed me that they were sorry, but it seemed my wife had mortgaged the home to the hilt. She had said something, they reported, about needing the money for psychiatrists. “Oh, and by the way, you are months behind in your new house repayments,” and they wanted to know when they could have their money.

I was stunned into a malaise. My wife was gone. My career was gone. My health was gone (still itching). The Navy was gone. My money was gone. And, now, my children and my home were about to be gone.

I sat down on my sofa, and stared out the window. There was nothing to do now, but wait for “them” to come and take everything away from me.

But, damn, I was mad! The race was over, and I had lost everything. And, I was angry as hell about it! It just wasn’t fair! We had gone from a happy, successful little family to utter destruction, in a matter of months. I needed somebody to blame. I turned the events over in my mind, and I hated my employer for trashing my family when I needed my job the most. I hated their health insurance company which had notified me that my family health policy did not cover mental illness after-the-fact. But, my former company seemed too puny to hold all of the hate I felt inside.

So, I turned my attention to my Commanding Officer, and the Navy. It was their fault, I reasoned, for not backing me in my times of tribulation. But, no, they were too puny, too.

The psychiatrists! Those were the bastards that caused all of this to happen! But, even collectively, they were all too puny to absorb the anger, and the hate, that seethed within me.

Huge shoulders

I sat there, trying to think of what I could do next.

The only solution that seemed like a semblance of a plan was to kill myself. Then, at least, my children would inherit my life insurance, I rationalized, and I would be out of my pain, and out of this stinking life. (Depressed people never consider the negative impact such an action will have on their loved ones remaining behind).

Yet still, the anger seethed within me. I needed to vent. I had to get it out of me, or I would burst. I looked up at the ceiling. I knew Who had shoulders big enough to dump my hate on.

“You Bastard!” I shouted out loud at my ceiling. “I don’t know if You are up there, but if You are, I’m telling You that you are a poor excuse for a ‘god’! If You were mad at me for being an atheist, then why didn’t you kill me?!” I demanded of the ceiling. “Why kill the one person who trusted You and loved You so much?! Why hurt our children by depriving them of their mother, who, thanks to their mother, also believe in You! You are a filthy, stinking, rotten s.o.b.! You Bastard...YOU KILLED MY WIFE!” and I broke down, sobbing, a crumpled mess.

The ceiling said nothing.

I stared out the window.

“That’s it,” I thought to myself. “The only solution to all of my problems is that I have to die!” I looked back up at my ceiling.

“Well, You piece of crap, God, You...You miserable, stinking s.o.b. I’m not sticking around to feel this pain for the next 40 years! I’m outa’ here! Screw You, and all Your faith crap! I’m taking my life, and then I’ll be dead...no afterlife. Just out of this pain and agony. I can’t bear it any longer! I’m going to starve myself to death, and there is NOTHING You can do about it! You can’t stop me, because I am more powerful than You, You phony excuse for a ‘god’! All loving, INDEED! Go to hell, Yourself!” I was really giving it to my ceiling. I was venting like mad.

The ceiling was silent.

Chapter 4
The Formula for Getting Miracles
Miracles...

I continued to rant and rave with my plan. “I will not eat for the next 3 weeks!” I announced, out loud, to my ceiling. “Then I will die of starvation. The kids can eat at friends’ homes. They’re hardly home anymore, anyway. This is certainly not a fun place to be. This is where their mother died, You bastard! Besides, I don’t have any food in the house, and no money to buy any with! Here! I’ll tell You what! I’ll show You just how puny You are! I don’t care if You deliver supper to my front door every day for the next 3 weeks! I’m NOT eating! I don’t care if supper shows up on my doorstep at 5 o’clock every day. I don’t eat. I die. The game is over. I’m finally done with Your hole of a stinking world!”

I hesitated for a moment. Why did I just say 5 o’clock, I wondered? After all, we didn’t eat until 6:00pm, ordinarily. Oh, well, what difference did it make? I shrugged it off.

The kids came home from school. My plan was in place. I would allow myself to have all of the coffee with cream and sugar in it, and all of the cigarettes I wanted, to ease the starvation pains, but, food was out of the question!

FREE FOOD -- THE FIRST MIRACLE

At 5 o’clock that day, the doorbell rang. It was April, who lived kitty-corner across the street. She was holding a pot. “What do you want, April?” I snapped.

“Well, I feel so badly about Barbara and all...well...I’ve made supper for you and the girls,” she said extending the pot.

“If you want to feed the kids,” I answered her, “they’re in the other room, but I’m not eating.” April came in, and fed the girls, washed her pot and the dishes, and left.

I sat on the sofa all the next day, staring out the window...feeling sorry for myself... waiting to die.

At 5 o’clock that second day, my doorbell rang. I answered it to a stranger I had never seen before.

“Hello, Mr. Tucker,” she smiled. “You don’t know me, and I don’t know you, but I used to attend Church with your lovely wife, and I feel so badly about your tragedy, that I wanted to do something for you...so, I’ve made supper, for you and your children.” And, she held out a pot of food.

“Well, the kids are in the other room, but I’m not eating.” She came in and fed the girls, washed her pot and the dishes, and left.

The next day, at the stroke of 5:00 pm, my doorbell rang again. Now, there was another woman I didn’t know standing on my stoop holding a pot!

“Are you Mr. Tucker?” she asked. “You don’t know me, and I don’t know you, but, I live two blocks over, and I felt so badly when I heard about your tragedy, that I wanted to do something nice for you, and your children...so I’ve made supper for you.” She thrust a pot of food at me.

“If you want to feed the kids, they’re in the other room, but I’m not eating,” I said. She came in, fed the girls, washed her pot and the dishes, and left.

The fourth day, the doorbell rang, again, at 5:00 pm. I answered it, and it was still another woman I didn’t know. She had the same message...and so did I.

“Do you go to our Church?” I asked, bitterly thinking that maybe there was a “conspiracy” of sorts being played out in the neighborhood.

“Oh, no, I go to the Catholic Church over on Loomis,” she said. I didn’t know any Catholics in the neighborhood, so I took her at her word.

The same thing happened again and again, the fifth day, the sixth day, the seventh day, etc., etc., etc. During all of these visits, by different strangers every day, for the next two weeks, all at 5 o’clock, and all carrying food...none of this “registered” with me. I didn’t think anything of it. Just some “do-gooders” butting in, was my self-pitying attitude. I spent my days just sitting on my sofa staring out the window, waiting to die of starvation.

By the 18th day in a row of these visits, I was perplexed. I was nowhere near dying. I had only lost about 25 pounds, and actually was starting to look trim. I pondered just how long it would take to die of starvation. Then, slowly, the light started to come on in my head. What was this?! What was going on, I wondered? Why were these women showing up on my doorstep with food? Was there a conspiracy operating behind my back, after all?!

“But,” I thought, “Wait a minute! I’m the one who said, ‘supper at my door at 5 o’clock’! Nobody else heard me say that to my ceiling! Say, wait a minute. It couldn’t be...could it? Naw, now I’m losing my mind. Just a coincidence!”

The silence, and the unanswered questions in my mind, hung heavy. Finally, I looked up at the ceiling, and said out loud, “What is this?! Is this some sort of ‘miracle demonstration’?! A couple of free meals, and You call THAT a miracle?! Go to hell! Keep Your food! Listen! You want to get ME back? Get Barbara out of the ground! Raise her from the dead, like you did Lazarus and Jesus, and that little girl, and so many others reported in the Bible! THEN You get me back! THEN I’ll believe in miracles! In the meantime, I’m not eating...I die...I win by escaping from this hellhole You call a ‘world’...and YOU lose! Because...I...am...more... powerful...than...You!”

The ceiling didn’t respond, of course.

On the 19th day, I peeked out my living room drapes at 5 minutes before 5 o’clock. Sure enough, there was some little old lady toddling down the street toward my house carrying a pot! I watched my wristwatch. One minute to go, as she passed the house next door. Bing-bong, went the doorbell at the very stroke of 5:00 pm! I answered the door, and we exchanged the same words that had happened every day for the past, almost, 3 weeks. She came in, fed the girls, washed the dishes, and left. I sat and watched in amazement.

The 20th day I didn’t even bother to look out the window. I stood by the front door at one minute to 5:00 pm staring at my watch, and wondering if it was fast or slow, and pondering why the doorbell always rang when my watch read 5 o’clock? At five seconds before the stroke of 5, I pulled the door open, and saw another stranger step up on the stoop, and reach for the bell!

After she left, I sat on the sofa and thought long, deep and hard about the events of the past weeks. “This goes way beyond coincidence,” I thought. “But...it can’t be a ‘miracle’,” I reasoned. “There haven’t been any ‘miracles’ for two thousand years! Have there? I must be losing my mind. That’s it! I’m over the edge. I’m delirious from lack of food.” I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was living in some sort of a “Twilight Zone”. I need answers, I thought to myself. I rushed around the house looking for our medical dictionary. When I found it, I looked up “Starvation”. It said that the human body could go without food for two months! But, a person could die from dehydration in three weeks. I flashed back on all of the pots of coffee I had been drinking, and laced with sugar and milk -- glucose -- the substance of life!

“What an idiot I’ve been,” I thought to myself. Okay, this nonsense has gone on long enough! I looked back up at my ceiling, and said, “Okay...if You’re up there, listen up! I was wrong. I can’t die in three weeks from starvation. But, I can and surely will die, if I don’t eat for three months! So, that’s the new plan! I’m not eating for the next three months whether You deliver food to my doorstep at 5 o’clock, or not! Then, surely I will die, and You will lose, and I will be out of my pain and agony, so I will finally win!” I felt like cackling hysterically, but thought that a bit over-dramatic, so I didn’t.

The next day, a Saturday, and the 21st day since my 3-week ordeal had begun, the doorbell rang at 5 o’clock. I pulled the door open, and stared at the man standing there dressed all in white -- white shirt, white work pants, and sporting a little black bowtie. I looked past him to his white panel truck parked at the curb. It had a black bowtie logo painted on it, and under it, it read, “Ron’s Catering”.

“Hi. I’m Ron of Ron’s Catering,” he announced. “All of your former employees and friends at the shopping center feel very badly about your loss. They wanted to do something nice for you, so they took up a collection and raised $5,000. They didn’t want to just give you the money. They thought that would be too crass. So, they’ve hired me to bring you and your children supper every day for the next three months. Is 5 o’clock okay?”

I stood there frozen...dumbfounded. How in the world could this BE?! This is just too surrealistic! I can’t be hearing what I am hearing! I’M the one who said to my ceiling ‘three months’! I’M the one who said ‘5 o’clock’! And then it struck me. I couldn’t win this contest of wills. No matter what I said or did, the food was going to keep on coming! I burst out laughing. I laughed hysterically, with tears streaming down my face. I opened the door wider, and with a bowing, sweeping motion of my arm, bade my visitor in. He set a silver tray down on the table and announced, “Don’t bother to wash our dishes. We take them back dirty, and sterilize them in our kitchens.” And, with that, he left.

I looked back up at the ceiling, and said, “Okay. You win. I’ll eat.” I called the girls, and we shared a meal together for the first time in weeks.

The next morning, with, now, renewed vigor, I plopped down on my sofa to stare out the window, and think about what was next. I was still in total ruin. I owed the mental institution $60,000, and was being dunned for payment -- an amount I figured I couldn’t save in three lifetimes if I had a job! I still had no job, and no money. The house was on its way out from under me, and the kids were about to be taken from me any day now. And, I was expecting to be ordered to Court Martial by the Navy, any day. And, damn, that itching was continuing unabated. I thought and I thought. Any way I thought about it, there seemed to be no solution at hand. My life was still to be the wretched experience the pain of losing my wonderful, beautiful wife had made it.

Then a selfish thought crossed my mind. I looked up at the ceiling...that wonderful, silent ceiling, and said, “Okay, Big Guy. You made this mess I am in, and You dug this pit for me, and You are making me stay alive, so You fix it! Put $60,000 in my mailbox over the next 30 days! If You can deliver three months and three weeks of free food to my doorstep, a measly $60,000 should be easy for You!” I demanded.

(continued in "Miracles Made Possible")