What
is a miracle? I know of nothing else but miracles. Every
hour of the light and the dark is a miracle. Every cubic
inch of space is a miracle. Every square yard of the
surface of the earth is spread with the same; every
foot underground swarms with the same. The sea is a
continual miracle. The fishes that swim, the rocks,
the motions of the waves, the ships with men in them.
What stranger miracles are there?
—Walt
Whitman
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 very
so often we read or hear about some happening that so completely
defies explanation that the people involved are convinced that
they have been part of a miracle. For the rest of us, it takes
faith to believe those accounts—faith that miracles are
possible, and faith in those giving the accounts. But faith
has its rewards. If we can believe that “impossible”
things have happened to others, then perhaps we can believe
that they can happen to us too.
The French philosopher and mathematician
Blaise Pascal called miracles the “lightning strokes of
God.” There’s no “perhaps” about a lightning
strike, especially to one who is standing on the spot where
it hits! Lightning is powerful, and it happens often—about
100 times per second in as many locations around the world.
I’m sure that if every miracle were recorded they would
far outnumber lightning strikes. What makes me so sure? I’ve
yet to be struck by actual lightning, but I’ve experienced
many “strokes of God.”
One such miracle that comes to
mind happened when I was living in Uganda, East Africa, and
it ties in with another one that happened to someone else there.
My son had been visiting from
Japan, and his flight home left early the next morning. I lived
quite some distance from the airport, which meant he needed
to leave the house at 4 am.
Realizing that it wasn’t
going to be easy to find a taxi at that hour, we prayed for
God to supply one and went to the main road, hoping to flag
down a taxi driver who would agree to pick up my son the next
morning and take him to the airport.
As we were standing by the side
of the road, a jeep pulled up. “Can I help you?” the
driver asked.
“Thank you, but I don’t
think so,” I said. Then, without meaning to, I explained
our situation.
“I’ll do it,” the
man said.
He’s just trying to make
some money on the side, I thought, but entering into
a deal with a freelance taxi driver can be dicey. “Thank
you, but we are looking for a regular taxi,” I said.
“I’m not a taxi driver.
My name is George, and I’ll drive you for free.”
George seemed sincere, but why
anyone would stop and offer to help in such a big way was curious.
We invited him for coffee at our home to get to know him better.
It was there that he told us his own miracle story.
Years earlier he had been working
as an electrician for the city’s main power station. Huge
amounts of electricity flowed through the lines he worked on,
so one small mistake could be fatal. One day that “small”
mistake happened. Someone else had failed to flip a certain
switch, and thousands of volts of electricity coursed through
George’s body. He should have been killed instantly, but
for some inexplicable reason he wasn’t. Everyone said it
had been a miracle.
This brush with death changed
George’s priorities and perspective on life. “Since
that accident,” he said, “I try not to make a move
unless I hear from God. I was sitting in my room tonight, watching
TV, when that inner voice that I’ve come to recognize as
God’s spoke to me. Get up, get in your car, and drive.
You’ll meet someone who needs your help. When I saw
you by the side of the road, I knew you must be the ones He
was sending me to.”
Now convinced of his sincerity,
we thanked George profusely for his willingness to drive my
son to the airport so early.
“God also told me to fill
my gas tank,” he said. Full tanks are almost unheard of
in Uganda because thieves routinely siphon gas from parked cars,
but this time it made sense; no gas stations would be open at
4 am, and we were far from the airport.
The next morning George arrived
right on time and drove my son to the airport. He did not ask
for money, but rather gave my son a generous donation for his
volunteer work, which came as another answer to prayer. The
amount happened to be exactly what my son needed for his next
project.
Few people would question that
God saved George’s life by a miracle, but what about our
meeting him the way we did? Ours wasn’t a life-and-death
situation, but does that make God’s intervention in answer
to prayer any less miraculous? I believe that every time we
have a need, it’s an opportunity for God to work on our
behalf. Ask for, look for, and expect miracles, and you will
get them!
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