One life is a miracle. One love is hope.

Last night, on the news: the Haitian husband whose wife is buried beneath the concrete rubble of a crumbled bank. Six days gone, and yet he believes she is alive. How can she be alive? Still, with machines, with hands, they pull the weight of the bank away, until the husband, calling for silence, hears something stir within.

A squad of U.S. experts arrives just in time, sends water through the fissure that's been made, opens the jaws of the rubble wide enough for her to call out, Tell my husband that I love him. For hours more, the experts work ahead of the next aftershock, until they can and do release this woman who, for six days, has survived the dark crush of a building. When she emerges, there are outcries, and song. There is her husband, so steadfast certain that she would live, that she would not leave him.

Today, they post new numbers: 200,000 feared dead. 1.5 million feared homeless. A country of sudden amputees. One life is a miracle. One love is hope.