Odd

Not too long ago Mark Shea sparked a discussion on his blog about miracles.

My maternal grandmother died back in June. My mother placed an icon of St. Andrew, one from an old monastery in the north of Cyprus, in the casket. I recall having mixed feelings about the act: it was a wonderful gesture, but then again I really liked the icon. You see, that icon used to be in my home, but I took it with me to school one year.

I made a comment to my mother late in summer about the lost icon, expressing a bit of regret that it was gone. It reminded me of my deceased father (who gave it to us originally) and grandparents, and I wished I had it back.

When I returned to school, I found that icon. Of course there are two options: there were two of them from the start, or something very strange happened. I don't think my family ever had two copies of the icon in question. I recall seeing one at home, the one I took back to school with me. Then again, I don't remember taking it with me when I returned home late last spring.

This is driving me crazy. I don't want to believe in some miracles that didn't happen. Yet I'm so very sure that there was only one copy of that icon of St. Andrew, and that we buried it with my grandmother.