Do miracles still happen today? In the stories of God and God’s people in the Bible we read about some spectacular and almost unbelievable miracles. The parting of the Red Sea, Jesus walking on water, raising a man from the dead, healing the blind, and Peter healing a man who could not walk. The list is long and the stories are remarkable.
The overall point of these miracles is to invite us to see that God is at work in profound ways in all parts of life, and that God cares deeply. God is interested in big things like the wellbeing of whole communities and the small things like the health of a young man. But in every miraculous story there is a common thread of goodness that weaves hope and reveals the character of God. Miracles are not about clouds and stardust and magic words, they are about flesh and blood and real people. The story of Jesus is that God entered into the neighbourhood and into the messy realities of our lives.
CS Lewis wrote that “Miracles are a retelling in small letters of the very same story which is written across the whole world in letters too large for some of us to see.” He also said that “Nothing can seem extraordinary until you have discovered what is ordinary.” In other words, every day, in small ways, we are invited to discover that the ordinary stuff of life is in fact telling a much bigger picture. We might say that miracles are found all around.
If I’ve ever seen a miracle it has been in the most tender moments of a new life. After years of trying to have a baby, a couple I know finally got pregnant and believe that God truly met them. For them it was a miracle. Another family we prayed for had triplets, when they were born they had a combined weight of only five pounds and we wondered if they could survive. Yet a few weeks ago all three played and ran around our yard as happy, healthy toddlers. They feel like a walking story of God’s love and care, they are a miracle.
Two weeks ago my baby girl, Ivy, was born. Ten months ago she did not exist, and today we hold this squishy bundle of cuteness. I remember holding her wrapped up in a blanket and thinking that this is what a miracle must be like. This miracle had a smell, she made little noises, she was warm and pink. This miracle had a name and was mine to love. A cynic might say that this baby was a natural process of cellular division. True enough. But her new life – from nothing to becoming my everything – is a miracle to me. Every miracle reminds me that God is good and that there is more happening all around me than I often see.
Miracles have a smell, they can be touched, hugged, and loved. Every person in your neighbourhood began as a miracle to a mother or a father. They are astonishing and uniquely beloved. No matter who you think they are, what they have done, or how ordinary you might think them to be, this fact remains: the people on your street are beautiful miracles. And you are, too.
