Some miracles are hidden. And they don’t feel like miracles at all. At least not in the moment. Eight years ago today, I sat on a blue plastic chair, hands clasped in my lap, in a sterile examining room and struggled to process four words no parent ever wants to hear. Words that carried enough power to punch a hole in my world and rip up the foundation. My son’s doctor, an older man with glasses sliding off his nose and a brown-striped tie, balanced on a tiny round stool. He rested his arms on a laminate desk that extended from the wall and took in a breath, as if…