mom's old roses started to  bloom.
The radio played my father’s tune.
The kettle sang before the sun came up.
I watched the steam curl like a question.
The dog blinked twice before he stood.
I didn’t answer. I just listened.
I used to think the sky was just a ceiling.
I never knew it changed its mind.
My mother’s hands would hum while peeling
apples she swore were past their prime.
The porch would creak like it was grieving
every time I stepped outside.
I thought the wind was just deceiving—
now I know it  always tried.
mom's old roses started to  bloom.
The radio played my father’s tune.
I didn’t know it was a miracle
when the toast came out just right.
I didn’t know it was a miracle
when I slept through half the night.
I didn’t know it was a miracle
when I stayed instead of ran.
But now I see the miracles
were always in my hands.
I see the miracles
were always.... in.. my ..hands......... in.. my ..hands......my hands
I left a note beside by bed
on the back of a grocery slip.
I said, “I’m fine,” but i'm not stronger
than the ink that tried to grip.
The mirror caught me mid-forgiving
someone who never asked me to.
I thought I’d lost the thread of living—
but it was pulling me through.
mom's old roses started to  bloom.
The radio played my father’s tune.
I didn’t know it was a miracle
when the toast came out just right.
I didn’t know it was a miracle
when I slept through half the night.
I didn’t know it was a miracle
when I stayed instead of ran.
But now I see the miracles
were always in my hands.
I thought the signs would come in thunder,
in burning bushes, parted seas.
But they were tucked beneath the mundane—
in folded shirts and and wispered in the breeze
I missed the voice that spoke in silence
because I only listened loud.
But now I hear it in the quiet
and I don’t need a crowd.]
The coffee cooled before I drank it.
The light fell soft across my shoe.
The mailman smiled like he meant it.
And I smiled .....too.And I smiled .....too.
[ pre Chorus – Small Miracles, Unnamed]
mom's old roses started to  bloom.
The radio played my father’s tune.
I didn’t know it was a miracle
when the toast came out just right.
I didn’t know it was a miracle
when I slept through half the night.
I didn’t know it was a miracle
when I stayed instead of ran.
But now I see the miracles
were always in my hands.
I see the miracles
were always.... in.. my ..hands.......[catchy riff].. in.. my ..hands......my hands
mom's old roses started to  bloom.
The radio played my.. father’s... tune.

All Rights held by songwriter Edwin H. Balder. Thanks to all the wonderful talent that made these recordings possible including the Del Studio Players, Tina, Tommy, Hot Cookie, The Indivisibles, AKB, and TBOJAR   For More tracks like this enjoy The Jubilee Line Playlist: https://soundcloud.com/edwin-balder/sets/the-jubilee-line?si=0e644986d56741c2b6eb7dc09f516a71&utm_source=clipboard&utm_medium=text&utm_campaign=social_sharing

Didn’t Know It Was A Miracle written by Edwin H. Balder

In the shadows of Apache Junction, at the foot of the majestic Superstition Mountains, sits a weathered hacienda. This desert oasis is home to an enigmatic figure, a songwriter whose journey reads like a long, dusty road of honky-tonk bars and college cafeterias. He wasn't chasing fame or glitter; instead, he chose the soul-crushing beauty of music for music's sake.

Years spent hunched over sticky barroom tables and scribbling lyrics on napkins earned him a reputation—not in the spotlight but in the back rooms where deals are made. He wrote melodies that found their way into the hearts of stars who had lost their own muse. He sold his creations for cash, with no recognition, but the whisper of his songs carried the weight of his soul.

Finally, he bought this piece of desert paradise—a stable income from his timeless songs allowed him to live comfortably, if anonymously. Here in this hacienda, with his family beside him and the mountains as his backdrop, he found the peace to write hits under his own name. He chuckled at the irony that now, without chasing fame, he could create music that brought him joy.

In the end, it was never about the spotlight. It was about the journey, the stories, and the songs that wrote themselves through his life. As the sun set behind the Superstitions, casting long shadows over the hacienda, he strummed his guitar and sang—content, unknown, and unburdened by the world's gaze.


Copyright 2019 Edwin H. Balder

I may be dead when fame comes but my real glory was always JULIE & The Kids. Thank you for such love

Didn’t Know It Was A Miracle written by Edwin H. Balder

Edwin Balder