There are numerous definitions for a miracle. Some are rather simple while others are expansive in scope. But to me, a miracle is an experience or occurrence that is not always explained by scientific knowledge.
Scientists can readily explain how a snow flake is formed, measured and the elements of its chemical composition. Yet, how can every single snowflake be different from all the rest? It is a miracle!
Scientists and horticulturalists easily explain how bluebonnets grow each spring with abandonment along Texas highways. But have no idea of certainty why perfectly normal people will cross a busy and dangerous highway to take a picture of their most loved ones in the blossoms. The emotional workings of the human heart is a miracle!
To me the definition is found in the human experience concentrated in the prescribed possibilities of experience. It is not so much what you see, but rather in what you feel. You may not know what love may be, but you sure know how it feels. And maybe even better the feeling of being loved. That feeling doesn’t need to involve science or an understanding of that experience. Yes, a little knowledge of the ingredients that go into the making of the miracle is important, but not significant.
When your granddaughter sits in your lap and places her little hands on your face and says, “Granddad, don’t we need an ice cream cone?” That is not a miracle, but a prophecy!
Einstein said that we need to look at everything as though it was a miracle. That miracles are everywhere. I would agree if we can add the word, “wonderment.”
Most of the things that appear as a miracle to me are based on my own limited scholarship. I know scientifically what causes the aurora borealis. But even though the rationale is there, once you have seen it, the event becomes more wondrous that its scientific explanation.
The best feature about a miracle is that it is free. Maybe that is why they are so unappreciated. I believe in spiritual miracles. And they are the most important of miracles. The Word is filled with them.
The following is a true story. There was a young lieutenant serving the last three weeks of his tour in Viet Nam. Though he was short seven days, he volunteered to go on a night patrol to recon a nearby riverbed. The VC were unloading supplies and HQ wanted some Intel.
He and his wife were expecting their first child. That was all he could talk about for weeks before she was to deliver. He wanted desperately to get home before the baby arrived.
There was a firefight and the young Lieutenant was mortally wounded. He was dragged up under a tree as the Doc went to work on him with large doses of morphine. I heard him cough. As I wiped the mud and blood from his face, he smiled. “I am a Daddy, I saw him, he said. “I got a big ole boy. He has his Momma’s blue eyes, my big ole Dumbo ears and his granddad’s red hair.” Then he died.
Twenty-three years later I was teaching an IOBC class at Fort Benning, Georgia. There were about 100 young lieutenants in the class. After each class was over some the young guys would come up and introduce themselves to me and discuss the class or their careers.
One morning a handsome young guy came up and introduced himself and told me he was from a small town in Arkansas. We visited a little more and I told him I had served with a guy from a small town in Arkansas. His nickname was “Duke’” because he was so big and strong. The young man paled. “That was my dad’s nickname he said. “And he was killed in Viet Nam.” I was speechless as I looked into the deepest blue eyes. “I never got to see him,” he continued. “He died just a few days before I was born.”
We had dinner that night discussing old times. A young lieutenant with red hair and big ole Dumbo ears and an old major talking about the Duke. That was a miracle!
