Miracles All Around Us

They happen when you least expect them

Patty Duke & Melissa Gilbert in 1979’s “The Miracle Worker”

“Ellen! Ellen!” I look to see who is calling my name. It’s a lovely day in February, with blue skies, a mild breeze, and fluffy clouds. The greenery in front of the Monrovia apartment complex we’re calling home for the next 16 months is lovely. We are still strangers to Monrovia, our new “not Altadena” village. “Ellen!” I finally locate the source of my name: a lovely young woman who looks familiar, but I don’t know her well and can’t recall her name.

“I’m Anneliese — you probably don’t remember me, but I was at Donna Falls’ memorial when I first met you. I’ve been reading your column since I was in high school.” Her words jog my memory; through the fog of my PTSD, it was comforting to have someone know my name in my new surroundings.

“We are just now moving into the apartment. I don’t mean to be short, but we’re on the clock.”

“Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.” We trade contact info.

The next day, it occurred to me that she could do something for us, something important in our steps toward creating normalcy. We’d been told that our new TV was scheduled for delivery and installation that Sunday, which conflicted with us singing in our beloved Coventry choir at All Saints Pasadena. I texted Annaliese and asked if she could stay in our apartment for a few hours on Sunday morning to intercept the delivery folks, as we really wanted to have a TV again. “Of course,” she responded.

In the scope of the Universe, getting a TV delivered and set up is not a big deal. However, a simple thing like a TV has more significance for disaster survivors. By the end of the day, we’ve dealt with so much emotional turmoil that we just want to watch Colbert or Call the Midwife: something normal in these abnormal times of having lost everything we’ve ever owned while watching Democracy being dismantled by the Orange Cheeto and his pro-Apartheid gazillionaire henchman.

In my humble opinion, Annaliese recognizing me and calling out until her voice registered with me — when crossing paths just 30 seconds earlier or later would have meant she wouldn't have seen me at all — constitutes a secular miracle.

A 1942 quote by prominent U.S. geographer Gilbert Fowler White, often misattributed to Albert Einstein, has stuck with me and applies to Annaleise: “There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.”

I had another instance of “Ellen!” being called out. This time, it is at Grano, an astoundingly-good Italian restaurant in Duarte. I hear my name, look around, and see my dear friend and fellow Altadenan, Teri Ortt, hurrying over to me. Ken and I are still at the maitre d’ desk after being told there is no room for two in the obviously packed place. Teri brings us over to her table, which includes her, her father, and his friend. The large round table has two empty chairs as Teri’s other party has not shown up. The owner comes over and says, “I can now seat you,” as I see a table for two being cleared. Teri says, “No, join us!” After some limp protest, we do and have a delightful dinner. After evacuating Altadena, Teri is now living in Oxnard; her house didn’t burn down, but it’s uninhabitable due to soot and all kinds of toxic particulates.

Again, had we not been at the Target next door getting basics, had Ken not said, “Hey, let’s go to Grano,” had Teri not been visiting from Oxnard… it all is so unlikely that I choose to regard it as another miracle. We got to sit with Teri, who could completely relate to our experience since she’s driven up to Altadena and seen the devastation with her own eyes. All her friends are scattered, similar to our having landed in Monrovia.

On the other hand, we encounter plenty of “un-miracles”: annoyances that fray our already-fragile psyches. Our property being looted was an extreme “un-miracle.” An exasperating “un-miracle” was a friend of my husband bending Ken’s ear about having “survivors guilt” because the friend’s Altadena home was still standing. Ken’s too nice to say, “Stop. I am not the person to be speaking to about this. Talk with someone who is also a survivor to compare notes. I’m still suffering from having lost everything and having to start over at age 74; I’m not a good ear for you right now.” How could someone be that tone deaf?

I am possibly overreacting since my days are filled with overreactions. I cringe daily, thinking of even irreplaceable items we lost, like my mother’s silver. I’m so glad I regularly used my mother’s sterling without polishing it! Horrors!

I’m grateful to have listened to Lynn Grey Bull, a Native American acquaintance from Wyoming. She says, “Stop waiting to use something for a special occasion. Life is a special occasion.” Indeed, it is, so if you have “special” silver or china, don’t wait for special occasions—use them! You never know what may happen tomorrow.

Many of you have asked if there is a GoFundMe campaign to help us recover from the devasting loss of our home and possessions. The answer is yes! Our dear friend Jenn Melyan has created a GoFundMe for us, which you can access here.

In 2024, the LA Press Club awarded Ellen Best Columnist and Journalist Of The Year. Snortland conducts online creative writing classes. If you’re interested, contact her