I was sitting on the single step of the narrow cement path that led from the graveled driveway to the back door of the house. It was a hot day in the summer that would end with me having to enter the fourth grade.

My brothers and the other McDonald kids were down at Davies' Lake, practicing the art of keeping their goodness hidden in order to partake of the delinquent pleasures of their chums. I guess I was a sort of precocious little boy, more given to the pondering of mysteries than to the employment of mischief. We were usually able to maintain a healthy balance though; I would seek out the company of my brothers whenever I felt the need to experiment with trouble and they would come to me whenever they needed to figure a way out. But today I had plenty to ponder just watching my Uncle Stewie rearranging the parts of his "mule."

It wasn't a real mule of course, we only called it that because he would make it work like one. Actually, it was an old Schwinn, constructed of thick metal tubing with wide handle bars and big balloon tires. During the winter he would hook it up to a plow he had made and use it to clear the long driveway of snow, then, for the summer months, off would come the snow plow and on would go the lawn mower, a broken one he'd found and redesigned so that it could be attached to the front axle. But today, the Mule had been turned back into a bicycle.

Julie McDonald had difficulty finding kids her own age to play with. She was only twelve but large and clumsy and she was always grinning and chewing on her hair. No one had ever before bothered to take the time to teach her how to ride a bicycle, so I suppose my Uncle Stewie knew it was about time she learned. Her broad face was made to appear even broader by eyes widened with the anticipation of a new adventure.

Uncle Stewie was built kind of like a bear; just as squat and stocky, and to me, just as strong and beautiful. In all the time I knew him, I think his face was capable of only two expressions. One was fixed with quiet attentiveness, alert to the possibility of any change in his immediate surroundings. The other was when he smiled and beamed with the innocence of an infant who has just discovered its big toe. And now, from my vantage point on the step, it was wonderful to watch the current of those two energies alternate back and forth.

He had coaxed Julie onto the bike and by supporting it with his left hand on the left handle bar and his right hand on the back of the seat, was pushing her up and down the driveway, all the time encouraging her to pedal with her feet and steer the front wheel when they had reached the end and it was time to turn around.

Up and down they went for the next couple of hours, but with each pass Uncle Stewie would push a little faster. After awhile, having judged a gain in Julie's confidence, he started saying "I'm gonna let go, I'm gonna let go," but she would squeal with glee and apprehension, and plead for him not to. And he wouldn't.

Finally, at nearly a full run, and ignoring her protests, he let go. Julie continued to pedal to the end of the driveway, turn around, ride past Uncle Stewie and brake the bike to a stop in front of me. I was jumping like a pogo stick and cheering her on. She got off the bike and I took her hands, we were jumping up and down together. "I did it," she said. "I can do it. I can ride."

Uncle Stewie was walking toward us but I was already running to the house. I had to tell mom and Julie's mom the good news. I found them at the kitchen table and yelled at them that Uncle Stewie had just taught Julie how to ride a bicycle. Mom looked up at me and said, "That's nice," and the two women went back to their tea and conversation.

This was probably my first mature disappointment with the adult world. I was certain I had just witnessed a miracle, and the only response my enthusiasm managed to elicit was "that's nice." But more important to me is that over the years I've come to a richer understanding of the nature of the miracle. It is simply this: a miracle is an ordinary human event, engineered by an ordinary human being with enough warmth for himself to be aware of who and what he is caring about.

There is a part in the heart of each man which is the warrior's part. And whether he is trying to stay alive in the triple-canopied jungles of Viet Nam, trying to help a friend with AIDS to die in peace, or trying to make personal relationships his arena of choice, he knows he is doing battle with the unknown. And because he has tasted of both victory and defeat, he knows that victory is dependent on the depth of his understanding and the breadth of his skill, and that defeat is what happens when the unknown becomes a source of fear and rationale for cowardice. It's always a bit easier for me to turn that sense of fear into one of challenge when I remember the time I watched a blind man teach a little girl with cerebral palsy how to ride a bicycle.