I might believe in miracles if the bullet landed between his toes. Instead, it drilled a third nostril two centimeters from his brain.

I was eight years old when Dad and I were walking to the mailbox when we heard a whistle. I tugged his pant leg hard like a church bell rope. He keeled over, not quite dead. Blood watered the grass. I waved my arms at the house on the hill. 

Later that day, Dad emerged from a hospital with stitches, gripping a shining brass seed in a plastic cup. It was meant to grow reassurance, rattling: “Your father isn't dead.”

The culprit was a .22, a round commonly used to kill squirrels and assassinate gang bangers. Since we were spending Thanksgiving at Grandpa’s farmhouse, authorities assumed a hunter had missed his or her prey. At first, Grandpa thought a hawk had dropped a rabbit on Dad's head.

Grandpa, a self-proclaimed Baptist, uses "miraculous" to describe Dad's survival. I'm skeptical of fate. If God wanted to save Dad, He could have guided the shot below his neck, through his sleeve, barely grazing skin.

Still, most weeks Dad will call, asking about Sheridan, how I'm living, and if I believe in divine intervention. What if the bullet had pierced an artery, killing him? Some circumstances feel like miracles because of the love they create.

Maybe it's a miracle I'm listening to his voice, but not literally. I ask Dad how he turns doubt into thankfulness. He replies that he doesn't have all the answers. I wonder where he's stashed his questions. I pray at night, silently. There are days I watch the sky, expecting bullets to fall, but it’s rain or nothing.