Santa Fe Miracle #1

Santa Fe’s Frank Ortiz dog park is a sprawling mishmash of trails and brush, winding through an arroyo and up several hills. The park has two entrances, and I can never remember which lot I’ve parked in, or where I’ve parked the car. The car isn’t mine, and I still have a hard time recognizing it in a sea of other silver colored SUVs. But today, after rounding up my dog JuJu and my friend’s dog Sasha, I spotted the car easily, walked up to it, fished in my pockets and purse for the car keys and came up empty.

I took everything out of my tiny purse two, three times, looking for the keys. I checked and rechecked my pockets. Nothing. I realized the keys must have tumbled out of my pocket when I fished out poop bags or the dogs’ leashes. I realized, then, I was screwed.

I am in Santa Fe staying at a friend’s house, dog-sitting her dog and mine while she travels in India. I remembered her saying she’d lost her keys in this same park a few months ago and what a hassle it was getting the car re-keyed. I told several other dog owners I’d lost my keys and all promised to keep a look out while they walked their dogs. One woman suggested I retrace my steps. But I pay no attention to where I walk. I’m focused on my dogs chasing other dogs and balls and movements in the brush in different directions. I spend most of our walk screeching, “JuJu! Sasha! Come! Stay where I can see you!” I spend most of my time being ignored by JuJu and Sasha, running after them to round them up.

As I tried retracing steps I didn’t remember taking, I thought about the prayer I’d slipped into the car’s glove box. My friend Joanie now goes by her spiritual name, Gurudharam Kaur Khalsa, and asked me to put a Sikh chant of protection in the glove box. I tried remembering the chant, but when I’m in crisis I usually return to my Catholic roots. Instead, I repeated over and over the St. Anthony prayer: St. Anthony, St. Anthony, please come around. I’ve lost my car keys and they cannot be found. The prayer is said never to fail.

Despite St. Anthony’s stellar track record, my expectations were low. How would I ever find the keys in a sprawling park when I couldn’t even remember which trails I’d walked? I thought of how difficult it was going to be getting new keys for a car that isn’t mine, its owner off in India. But I knew negative thinking wasn’t going to help my situation, so I kept uttering the St. Anthony prayer, and focused on the fact that I was walking under a gorgeous cyan sky. It was 64 degrees with a warm, light breeze. I knew the weather back east was abysmal, and that I’d escaped the worst of winter. I tried to summon whatever gratitude I could as I gave up on the keys, headed back to the car to call Triple A.

Next to the park’s entrance is a table where people leave gallons of water and ratty looking bowls for the dogs. I headed towards the table to get the dogs a drink. I was shocked at what I saw. My car keys were on the table.

I stared at the keys in disbelief for a few seconds. A man—Michael—standing next to the table asked if I was okay when he saw me starting to cry. I explained what had happened, and that is was a miracle the keys were found and placed here. I stood with Michael for a few minutes talking as other dog owners ambled past on their way out. “Did you find your car keys?” each of them asked. “Someone found them for me!” I said, still in disbelief, enormously grateful.

I remember someone saying that miracles never sound like miracles in the retelling. Talking about miracles seems to trivialize them, make their recipients seem merely lucky. My miracle today may sound like a small thing, but I know that to God or the Universe or the Great Whatever, there is no difference in a little miracle and a huge one. Finding those car keys stirred something in me. Gratitude, yes, but something more: an expectation of miracles.

I cannot wait to see what miracles tomorrow brings.