In my mind’s eye, there’s a room full of beautifully wrapped boxes. Inside each box is one reason I believe in miracles. This week, the week before Christmas Day, I’m unwrapping one box at a time. The reasons included already have been: presence, innocence, strangers, writing,nature, and time.

A people-pleaser to the nth degree, a little girl sits on the stairwell of the motel she and her family are living in. She is alone when an adult male comes up the stairs; he walks to the left and goes all the way down the walkway, looks around the corner, and turns back. He strides past the little girl, going now to the right, gets to the end of the walkway, looks around the corner, and turns to walk back towards the girl. Nervous butterflies dance in her belly, even though she doesn’t know why she’s nervous. At around six years old, she’s a people-pleaser to the nth degree. Her world is structured by rules, one of which clearly says that grown-ups are to be obeyed. Still, something feels weird. The man says hello, asks about her doll, but when he asks her if she’ll help him find his room, an overwhelming sense of foreboding comes over her. Without knowing why, she says she’s not allowed, stands, and goes back inside the room she shares with her parents. She looks outside the window and watches as he disappears into a room just two doors from hers. She’ll remember this incident for the rest of her life, as it is the first clear memory of God’s guidance.

Same little girl, a different state, a house instead of a motel. The world outside her window is black: the sound of a fan whirs. Her body shakes uncontrollably: when she walked to the bathroom, there was blood on her legs that she washed away, but her body still aches. She’s tossed and turned since then. She holds a palm out, toward the ceiling, prays, please hold my hand, God, and tries to pretend she’s not scared to sleep. It only takes a few moments for a heat she can’t explain to settle over her palm. The fear rolling in her stomach settles, the shaking gentles, and she falls asleep, content with the knowledge God holds her hand. A few years later, when she needed more than unexplained heat settling over her palm, this girl would find Isaiah 41:13, which says, ”For I am the Lord your God, who takes hold of your right hand, saying, ‘Do not fear, I am with you’.” The Scripture would send goosebumps racing along her spine because it was reinforcement that what she believed was true.

Same young girl, a month past her thirteenth birthday, in a different state, living with her grandparents, still afraid. Her baby brother, ten days old, just died. The scariest thing is the grief wrapping like a cloak around her mother. The mother who has spent thirteen years putting anointing oil on the doorframes of her bedroom at night, praying over her every day, struggles with God. The young girl sees it… and the idea of her mother losing her faith terrifies her. She spends several nights earnestly praying for Him to help her, to show Himself to her, to protect her faith. It is the hardest thing she’s prayed for in years. Shortly after this week of constant prayer, they move again, and are staying in a different house. One day, she notices her mother seems thoughtful, or maybe a little confused, and asks why. The mother says, “Last night, I woke up; I knew I was being watched. In the corner of the room, standing by the wall, was this huge…. figure. He was so, so big. And, in His arms, he held Nathan wrapped in a blanket. I couldn’t see his face, but I knew it was Nathan. The man, he stayed there in the corner with Nathan, the rest of the night. I watched him. It was real. And then, I was going to the hospital. I wanted to be where Nathan last was, and I was really, really sad. There’s a walkway by the hospital – construction is happening — and I was on that side of the building, I was about to turn the corner, when this man passed me and said, ‘It’s going to be okay.’ When I turned to see him…. he was gone. I even walked back to see if maybe he turned the corner… but I didn’t see him.” The mother’s faith survived the death of Nathan and the fact that it did reinforced the young girl’s belief God was with her, too. 

Same girl, now around sixteen, different state, living in a log cabin this time. This cabin has been the source of indescribable terror… and heartwarming peace. Tonight, though, terror reigns. The room she’s in is small, smells of cedar, and is completely dark. Surrounding her are … figures. They are dressed completely in black; she can’t see their faces, but she knows where they are. They surround her bed and they laugh at her. When she turns the other way, they follow. They are terrifying. She’s done everything she’s been taught to do: she’s braved the terror by jumping up and turning on the adjacent bathroom light, she’s asked God to hold her hand, she’s talked directly to the figures and told them to get out. The more her efforts failed, the more scared she felt. At a loss, she starts quoting, out loud, the armor of God, as if she’s pulling on each piece physically. Within moments of doing this, the figures back away from her bed, and she’s able to sleep. This was such a vivid, terrifying experience that it stayed with her for years… and it reinforced her belief not only in God but also in miracles.

These formative events, along with other indescribable things (surviving multiple health crisis and nine surgeries, the birth of her daughters, and a thousand small miracles throughout the years), make it impossible for me to not believe in miracles. Faith is a personal experience: the reasons I believe will be different than the reason anyone else believes; I’m convinced that’s because God is a relational, personal God and so doesn’t prescribe cookie-cutter miracles. Every event in my life, good and bad, creates a circle. Without this bad thing, I might have missed this miracle; without this good thing, I might not have found a way out of this bad experience. Hopelessness can be the result of viewing each encounter or experience as random, individual circumstances, but when the cause-and-effect relationships are considered, and our lives’ experiences are appreciated as interconnected, miracles are hard to miss.

Experiences, personal and unique to each one of us, curate a belief in miracles, and foster a sense of wonder. I’ve been working on this blog series for six days: by day five, the self-reflection was getting real. Why do I believe in miracles? After the easy answers came a silence. How do you explain a collection of small, unexplainable, experiences that ultimately shaped your views on a whole host of important topics? I just do, I thought to myself. I just do believe in miracles. I just do because I don’t even know how I’d go about looking at my life without some of those pivotal experiences: I’d be a different person without them. I just do believe in miracles because I see things I can’t explain every day: wonderous things from nature, from my daughters, from encounters with strangers. And, if those unexplainable things cause me to stop and stare in awe, isn’t that miraculous? Isn’t it miraculous for someone, despite all the stress and all the pain, to allow those unexplainable moments to nurture a belief that life is beautiful, a gift to be unwrapped each and every day? Isn’t it miraculous that, despite all the pain and fear in my life, I might still see life as worthwhile, people as good, and Santa as real? While our parents do teach us, it is our own experiences that reinforce, or refute, those teachings. I, for one, am awed by, and thankful for, each experience, for without pain, how do you recognize joy? 

Same woman, older now, new state, new house, finally safe and healthy, lays in front of a twinkling Christmas tree. The stockings are hung, the last gift is wrapped; her children sleep upstairs; the fire crackles. The anticipation of tomorrow’s early rise, the forthcoming exclamations of morning joy, and the quiet reminders of a life’s worth of miracles brightens the night.