We have a strange habit of explaining away the things that should stop us in our tracks.
I have carried a needle full of Hepatitis C into my body.
I’ve looked down the barrel of a gun.
My heart quit beating at twenty-seven.
We speak about miracles as though they belong to another century. As though God retired after the apostles.
You can call them isolated events if it makes the world feel more predictable.
I can’t.
Not because I believe God owes me an explanation, but because I’ve felt His fingerprints in places too dark for optimism to survive.
God has always had a habit of walking into the rooms we avoid.
The addict’s bathroom.
The emergency room.
The motel.
The childhood bedroom.
The place where a little girl learns terror before she learns trust.
He doesn’t wait for the story to become respectable. He enters it while it’s still bleeding.
That’s the miracle.
Not that I escaped death. That Christ kept stepping between me and it until the work He meant to do in me was finished.
We keep looking for burning bushes while ignoring the fact that we’re breathing.
Every morning I wake up is another sentence God has written that death wasn’t allowed to erase.
We pretend we don’t know miracles.
I know one by name.
His name is Jesus.
B🤍
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