I’ve mentioned before that Mira has a “leg length discrepancy.” It means several big surgeries in her future, but for now, all it means is that she walks on her tippy-toes.

Correction: she runs/dances/twinkles/jumps on her tippy-toes. A 10 percent difference in leg lengths doesn’t slow her down one bit.

Now that she can get around just fine, her doctor wants her to have a shoe lift so that she will learn to walk on flat feet. I took Mira to get measured for her lift a few weeks ago. She did fine in the waiting room but as soon as we walked into the examining room, she burst into tears. She knows a doctor’s office when she sees one.

So it was with dread and trepidation that we set off yesterday to pick up her shoes. We asked several friends to pray for us and for Mira during that time. I hate seeing my girl sad and scared and nothing makes her revert back to the sad little girl we brought home a year and a half ago than a trip to the doctor’s office.

We were ushered back to the room immediately. Mira was tense, but I let her hold on to the iPad and our technician promised her he wouldn’t touch her. He just handed me the shoe and I tried to put it on her foot.

Tried is the operative word.

In the two weeks we waited for her lift to be made, she outgrew her shoes. Hooray for good nutrition!

I asked the tech if this meant I’d have to pay for a second lift to be made. The tech offered to get his manager.

A few minutes later, this big hulk of a man walked into our room. He shook my hand and then began speaking to Mira. “Let me see your shoes, Princess.”

She obligingly held up her foot, which surprised me. She wasn’t smiling, but she wasn’t crying either. Progress.

Mr. Manager reached out to touch Mira’s shoe and she fell apart. Before her tears had even hit her cheek, and before I could stop him, this big man scooped her up into his arms and laid her on his chest. “Oh, sweetheart, it’s okay. We’re going to fix it. You’re alright.”

He laid her back to look up at him and wiped her tears from her face.

He spoke to me while keeping his eyes on Mira, “We won’t charge you for the next lift. We’ll fix it for free, okay?”

I’m not sure who was charming who but it was working out in our favor.

The panic in my chest that hit when he first picked her up began to abate.

Mira obliged the room with her cooperation while they measured again and discussed the best way to even her out. She wouldn’t smile at anyone, but she would wave, give them five, and even whisper a “thank you” when they reassured us they would make things right.

We left the office and made a flying trip to a nearby shoe store for a pair of shoes that fit. (The shoe store is nearby, but since I still get completely lost in this town, it took us awhile to actually arrive.) Fortunately, I had a friend with me to help with Finn. (The rest of the kids were at home with Andrew.) I nursed the baby in the car while she went to grab us lunch and then we went back downtown to drop off the new shoes.

It was a crazy and chaotic morning, but my Mira was peaceful. After she was properly bear hugged, she never complained or whimpered when others touched her feet or picked her up without my permission. (Trust me, I was RIGHT THERE to reach for her if she needed me. My inner Mama Bear was on high alert.) She just played with my iPhone or ate her grilled cheese or took a catnap in her carseat, all without a word.

When we pulled into the driveway at last, she went inside and greeted her people. And then she sang and danced her little heart out for the rest of the afternoon. She didn’t pout, she didn’t have a “sad day.” She never said another word about it.

That’s the power of prayer, y’all. Can I get a Hallelujah?