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Stories of recent and modern day Miracles.


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Author Topic: Stories of recent and modern day Miracles.  (Read 316 times)
Eugene66
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« Reply #3 on: August 14, 2009, 04:40:57 am »


The Hindu Milk Miracle of
September 21st 1995 (and August 21st 2006!)
 “The best documented paranormal phenomenon of modern times.”
 
 
 Watch the Video (6:05 min)
 
 http://www.milkmiracle.com/html/miracle.html#Video
 
 
Never before in history has a simultaneous miracle occurred on such a global scale. Television stations (among them CNN and BBC), radio and newspapers (among them Washington post, New York Times, The Guardian and Daily Express) eagerly covered this unique phenomenon, and even sceptical journalists held their milk-filled spoons to the statues of gods - and watched as the milk disappeared.

It all began on September 21st when an otherwise ordinary man in New Delhi dreamt that Lord Ganesha, the elephant-headed God of Wisdom, craved a little milk. Upon awakening, he rushed in the dark before dawn to the nearest temple, where a skeptical priest allowed him to proffer a spoonful of milk to the small stone image. Both watched in astonishment as it disappeared, magically consumed by the God.

What followed is unprecedented in modern Hindu history. Within hours news had spread like a brush fire across India that Ganesha was accepting milk offerings. Tens of millions of people of all ages flocked to the nation's temples. The unworldly happening brought worldly New Delhi to a standstill, and its vast stocks of milk - more than a million liters - sold out within hours. Just as suddenly as it started in India, it stopped in just 24 hours.

August 20/21, 2006:
The miracle occured again on 20/21 August 2006 in almost exactly the same fashion, all though initial reports seem to indicate that it occured only with statues of Ganesh, Shiva, and Durga. The first reported occurance was on the evening of the 20th in the city of Bareilly in Uttar Pradesh, from where it spread throughout India like wildfire. Browse Google News.

January 13/14, 2008:
The miracle is occuring again on 13/14 January 2008 , as I was informed by guest book entry! See   (spectacular, very clear footage). Is it a single phenomenon this time?
 
« Last Edit: August 14, 2009, 04:42:52 am by Eugene66 » Report Spam   Report to moderator   Logged

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« Reply #2 on: August 14, 2009, 04:32:41 am »

Rashmi & Ketan Dave

When Ketan and Rashmi Dave met in 1992, it was not an arranged marriage, just the “good old Indian introduction”. Their parents had known each other back in Kenya. They spent five months getting acquainted before marrying in 1993. Ketan worked, and still does, as a race equality officer in Haringey, north London, and Rashmi was training to be an accountant. Both wanted to focus on careers and also on those more enjoyable elements of young married life: the sands of Cozumel, the waters of the Caribbean. It was also important that Ketan found 10 days a year to snowboard the slopes of North America. (At their home in Wembley, he still occasionally stares longingly at his unused board).

They knew of the restrictions that came with children, but by the time they reached their late 30s, they made the decision to try. There wasn’t pressure; they were just getting on with their lives. After a couple of years nothing was happening. “There was a point,” says Rashmi, now 39, “when we realised it’s about time we did something about it medically.” In 2001, she had a laparoscopy to check her fallopian tubes; they proved healthy. Instead of the NHS queue, they decided to go private and embarked on a six-month treatment with a fertility drug that stimulates the ovaries. Still no luck. It was irksome: nothing was wrong. They were healthy. It was an unexplained infertility. “You start thinking, what could it be?” says Ketan. “You lie awake at night, going through all sorts of things.”

Because their tests went well, IVF seemed to be the solution. They went to the London Fertility Centre on Harley Street for their first treatment, which started in September 2002. Half the eggs were left to mix with sperm to see if they fertilised themselves in a process called ICSI; half the eggs were injected with sperm for IVF. “You could rule out that I was not producing eggs,” says Rashmi. “On the first IVF treatment I had 25 eggs.” It was a staggering amount.

“I was very optimistic,” says Ketan. “On the day of the embryo transfer, the doctor phoned and said, How many embryos do you want to transfer: two or three? I was so convinced that it was going to work I said two, because I didn’t think we could cope with triplets. Looking back, I was so confident.”

The cycle didn’t work. The couple went on holiday, came back in March 2003, and embarked on another IVF. Again, Rashmi produced a good number of eggs, but there was no pregnancy. “The same story,” she says. “It wasn’t meant to be and it didn’t happen.” Two more treatments followed, neither of them successful.

“It’s like being a member of a two-man bobsleigh team,” Ketan says. “You haven’t got brakes. You desperately want it to stop and get off, but you can’t. You’re stuck in this. It’s like you’re in an IVF trance. It’s difficult to draw the line and say, ‘This is the last treatment. We’re not going to go any further.’ If they had said to me, ‘I’m sorry, Mr Dave, your sperm count is zero, there’s no medication in the world that will help you. Sorry, Mrs Dave, your fallopian tubes just don’t exist,’ then I might have thought, maybe I should stop and accept my lot in life. But when they’re saying there’s absolutely nothing wrong with you, it’s very difficult to stop.”

Most couples are successful on the second, third, sometimes fourth attempt. For the Daves, there was a stress that came with not succeeding. On one occasion, the fertility drugs had enlarged Rashmi’s ovaries “to the size of grapefruits”, say Ketan. She could hardly walk for the pain.

In June 2004, Rashmi and Ketan began their final attempt. They’d held their faith in the medical professionals, particularly Professor Ian Craft at the LFC. The burden was emotional, physical and financial. Ketan estimates that they spent over £20,000 on a total six treatments. “We were determined that this was not going to ruin us,” says Rashmi. “If it wasn’t going to happen, we could say we had done all we could. The whole point of having fertility treatment is to have happiness, not to have your marriage fall apart.”

They began the fertility drugs once more. This time, however, they tried a process known as Gift (gamete intra-fallopian transfer), which mimics the natural process, mixing sperm and eggs, and placing them at the end of the fallopian tubes. Rashmi produced 19 eggs and the decision was made to use all 19, thanks to the advice of Professor Craft.

“You want to be positive,” says Rashmi. “It’s going to work, going to work. But at the back of your head you’ve got something saying, ‘I’ve got to be prepared for the worst.’”

“Doubts creep in,” says Ketan. “Of course they do. Sometimes you think, ‘How am I going to react if this doesn’t work?’ You counteract that by saying, ‘Stop thinking in the negative.’ We had a really good feeling.”

At their home, Ketan and Rashmi are perched on the edge of their couch. Like synchronous oil wells, their arms move up and down, rocking the small baby chairs that sit on the floor. After eight months, both parents can simultaneously carry on a conversation and rock their twin daughters, Kiya and Nysa, to sleep.

Ketan starts to tell me how they confirmed Rashmi’s pregnancy in August 2004. “If this was 50 years ago, it wouldn’t have happened, full stop. If we were living in the 1940s, say, in 1940s rural India, we’d still be without children. Even 20 years ago, I don’t think we would have had the same sort of opportunities.”

His voice is still excited, still strangely surprised, but Rashmi urges him in her calm voice to bring the volume down. The kids, after all, are sleeping.

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« Reply #1 on: August 14, 2009, 04:32:07 am »

Geraldine Willson-Fraser

“It started when I was 22,” says Geraldine Willson-Fraser. She is now 67 and we’re in her garden flat in Kentish Town, north London. She is telling me of the early 1960s, when she had booked the “OE” - overseas experience. In those days it was a big deal to take off from Christchurch, New Zealand, to traipse around the world, the more momentous for Geraldine because she was planning to leave her boyfriend, too. Then she found she was pregnant. She was, in her words, “twenty-two-and-a-half going on 15″. “I didn’t say anything to anybody. I wasn’t going to scotch my big OE because of this mere inconvenience of pregnancy, so I shut up about it and kept on going.”

Geraldine came to England, started working. “All throughout the pregnancy I knew I wasn’t going to be able to keep her, so I pretended she wasn’t happening.” Eventually, she couldn’t hide the changes. She put herself at the mercy of St Martin-in-the-Fields in Trafalgar Square, and was sent to work as an au pair for a woman in Surrey. She was put in touch with an adoption agency, which found a South African couple ready to take on the newborn baby. But not before Geraldine had to care for her daughter for a week. It was painful. “I’m pretty good at shutting off things I don’t want to think about,” she says, “but obviously, if you’re with a small child day in, day out for a week, there’s a bond. I didn’t want to give her up. It was the most difficult thing I have ever done in my life. But by that time I had committed to these people. I couldn’t say, ‘Sorry, I’m keeping her.’ I couldn’t do that. So she went. And I just put it away, got on with my life.”

About 30 years ago, the woman in Surrey who had helped Geraldine when she was pregnant forwarded an article written by a South African journalist about her two daughters having a fight. The elder, who was adopted, was taunted by the younger. “Mummy’s my real mummy,” the younger girl said. The mother intervened and explained to the elder girl: “You’re very special. We went to England and chose you, and we could have chosen anyone. We chose you.” Geraldine recognised the name on the byline. It had been mentioned to her at the adoption agency. It had to be her daughter’s mother, but Geraldine felt she couldn’t interfere .

It was 41 years after giving birth - a couple of years ago - that Geraldine felt the urge to put her affairs in order. She was 65 and had led a fairly vagabond life. Now a few loose ends could be tied. Her thoughts went to her daughter, who could still be living in South Africa, who could be dead. She didn’t know why it was that moment, but she had to find her.

She had the magazine clipping and the byline. The phone books at the South African embassy offered two addresses. One letter was returned; the other recipient didn’t answer. The adoption agency had long since gone. “I suppose at the time I was coming to grips with the computer,” says Geraldine. “I suddenly thought: why don’t I use it?” The next step was to look up people-finding agencies on the net. Geraldine found Soul Search.

A month passed and the agency had dug up a few details. The internet had yielded “a widow … an ex-journalist” and an address. Geraldine carefully crafted a letter that she hoped would be friendly, but not encroaching. Then she got a letter from the mother, Angela. “It was terribly exciting. It consumed my every waking thought. My brothers didn’t know. Nobody knew - they know now and were staggered. Shocked, but not shock horror. Delighted to think they had another niece.”

After hearing from Angela, Geraldine received a tentative, formal email from Jacqui, her daughter. They began a correspondence. Jacqui worked as a producer for a South African television soap opera. She had a partner, a woman named Cleo. She had been a sporty child. She had a dry sense of humour. In September, two years ago, Geraldine and one of her twin daughters, born 10 years after Jacqui, were planning on flying out to see the other twin in New Zealand. Their flights included a five-day stop in South Africa, at Angela’s invitation. “On the flight I was nearly sick,” Geraldine says. “I couldn’t breathe properly … I was prepared for rejection: ‘How could you? You obviously didn’t love me.’ That sort of thing.”

At Johannesburg airport, the waiting crowd was standing in a ring. Angela squeaked, “Here they are.” They flung themselves at each other, and the laughing and crying began. “She was familiar,” says Geraldine. “And that’s how she felt about me.”

At one point Geraldine thanked Angela for sharing Jacqui with her in this generous, big-hearted way. “She said, ‘I’ve always shared her with you.’ ” And she had. In February 1987, Angela had written another article in a South African magazine and titled it Dear Geraldine. It was about their daughter on her 21st birthday - an open letter to celebrate this person they could both take responsibility for.

“I’m still telling people about my daughter,” Geraldine says. “It’s my ace card. People ask now how many daughters I have, and I tell them three.”

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« on: August 14, 2009, 04:29:40 am »

When a mother lives halfway around the world from her children, she must learn the fine art of not worrying. Megan Stuart and her husband, Ian, moved from Australia to Liverpool six years ago when Ian took a job at Liverpool Hope University. There were occasions when their three grown children back in Australia complained of illnesses, and when she heard that her youngest, 18-year-old Phoebe, had tonsillitis, Megan wasn’t unduly concerned.

It was June 2001, and Phoebe was living in the hall of residence at Queensland University when her eyes became puffy. Her GP prescribed penicillin and she returned to college. When her condition worsened, she went to hospital and was immediately put in the infectious diseases ward. That night she deteriorated and was admitted to intensive care.
By the time her mother flew in, Phoebe’s skin was covered in blisters. Her hair, eyelashes and fingernails were falling off, and she was swollen, almost unrecognisable. There had been a severe reaction to the penicillin. Phoebe was diagnosed with Stevens-Johnson syndrome, a rare disease that attacks the skin and mucous membranes. Patients burn from the inside out, at a vicious pace. There was a friendly Irish doctor on duty when Megan arrived at the Royal Brisbane. She asked about Phoebe’s chances. “He just looked at me like he was saying, ‘You fool.’ I said, ‘Twenty per cent?’ I was trying to get it higher.”

Phoebe deteriorated. She was given a further diagnosis of the more severe variant, toxic epidermal necrolysis. Her chances of survival plummeted. By the third week in intensive care, the tiny blood vessels at the tips of her extremities began to blacken. Soon after, her fingers began to go black and then her whole left hand died. By week four the staff were forced to amputate.

The Stuarts live in the Childwall neighbourhood of Liverpool. On the Sunday afternoon I visit, Phoebe answers the door with a bright grin. She’s heard the stories of her time in a coma, how the surgeon told her parents, “What’s a foot? It’s nothing. It has no bearing on life at all.” But it wasn’t just a foot. The surgeons amputated both her legs below the knee. And the fingertips on her right hand. And her left hand.

Phoebe’s tone is light and optimistic. She is comfortable taking off one of her prosthetic legs, now a little battered with wear. She’d asked for tanned legs, being Australian, after all. She wears a metal bracelet from a “five-dollar shop” in Brisbane to cover the line where her skin and the false hand meet. Phoebe says she was a bit of a tomboy growing up. “Vanity has never been a massive thing in my persona.”

Even after the amputations, the disease continued, reserving a special malice for her eyes. Her eyelids were stitched together to try to keep as much lubrication inside as possible. The surface of her cornea burned. Slowly, she was going blind. She’s since had a number of operations at St Paul’s in Liverpool: a small graft of amniotic membrane placed on each eye; cells inserted in her eyelids from a donor. She has regained 60% vision.

“In intensive care, no one thought I was going to live,” Phoebe says. “In the infectious diseases ward, no one thought I would live a normal life. In rehab, the head of rehab said to my parents, ‘Hasn’t anyone told you? Phoebe’s not going to walk again.’ I was such a princess about it. ‘A wheelchair? How embarrassing.’ No one was willing to say I’d be fine.”

Phoebe has four subjects left for her political science degree and has applied to do law next year. She’ll get married sometime in the future and have kids. That’s not a worry. All of that stuff, she says, is “ship-shape”. In a quiet moment during lunch, the conversation turns to miracles. Twenty years ago things would have been different. Death - most likely. Blindness - certainly. Afterwards, Phoebe walks me out to the car. It’s not a long walk, but, given the history, it feels a touch miraculous.
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