An invitation to a miracle

Miracles are elusive creatures. They seem to hide themselves away such that they have become almost mythical. The substance of long ago before the world had Pfizer and Oprah Winfrey to solve our problems. If we viewed the world from mountain peaks, it would almost seem like our lives, with our manicured lawns and nails, are idyllic, but it doesn’t take much of a descent from Olympus to begin to hear the cries of suffering humanity. We carry within us the delight of joyful sunshine moments like little lemonade stands in our hearts and at the same time we carry the fear and agony of things gone wrong. This juxtaposition of comedy and tragedy ever-present as we pick up dinner, shave, feed the cat, and tie our child’s shoes. Sometimes, though, we have seasons of life when things get bad. Really bad. We get terminal cancer or lose our life’s savings or we stand by helplessly as our children shrivel, like in those dreams when your shouts come out like a whisper and your punches land soft and flat. Those days, the ships of our souls are lost at sea, and we are desperate to find our way home. We need a miracle.

I found myself in this position when I was told in December I had only a few weeks to live—and then again when I did live but then had no idea what to do with this new life where cancer would be my constant companion. “How do I rebuild a life, now that it looks like I’m going to have one?” I asked God more than once. He and I both knew I couldn’t go back to what I had done before. Working a traditional job isn’t practical for this new life. Weekly treatments leave me a little foggy and scattered sometimes. Some days I have to sleep for hours because coming down from the steroid feels like coming off a three-day bender where I’m found in a field with leaves tangled in my hair. Not exactly the qualities you want on your resumé.

Overthinking my future and starting to feel the tightness of almost panic, I remembered a bible story I read decades ago and hadn’t thought about since. In the second book of Kings, a widow is about to have her sons taken as slaves to work off the debt she cannot pay. In desperation, she calls for Elisha the prophet. When he learns of her distress, he does something peculiar. He asks, “What do you have in your house?” What a ridiculous question. My answer would have been visceral. “Clearly if I had something in my house to solve this problem, I would not have called for you.” Thankfully, for her sake and for ours, she told him she had only a small jar of oil. He told her to gather vessels from all of her neighbors. She and her sons did as instructed and gathered jars of every size until the house was full. Then she poured from her little jar of oil. From the first vessel she poured until the last was full. She sold the oil, paid off her debt and had enough left to support herself until her death.

This seems to be a pattern with God and miracles. He requires that we show up with something we recognize as pitifully inadequate to solve our problem. Moses had a staff. The disciples had five loaves and two fish. The woman with the issue of blood touched Jesus’ garment. Peter found a coin in the mouth of a fish. The widow had a small jar of oil. The chasm between what we hold and the enormity of our need is the space where hope and faith bloom. What a strange and beautiful God, who invites us to bring what we have, in its glorious insufficiency, and place it in his hands. He meets us in our smallness and receives our offerings like a mother opening her hands to the tiny clovers her child picked on the way home. He fills the gaps in all that we lack to remind us of his love and mercy. Our small offerings anchor our confidence in the truth that we can do nothing apart from him—but we don’t have to.

I recently saw an interview with a missionary who has nine children and stage four colon cancer. He told the story of finishing his first chemo treatment and then finding out he had COVID the same day. Sleeping on the living room floor because he didn’t want to expose his wife or children, he lay there wide awake from the misery. Desperate for relief, he began to pray. Not for himself, but for those suffering around the world. As God brought people into his mind, he prayed fervently throughout the night. He continued that offering for days and weeks as pain subsided and God restored his strength. While he continues to live with cancer, he is traveling again, joyfully and energetically fulfilling his mission. He had nothing in his house that night apart from his earnest prayer. Turns out, that was enough for a miracle.

Taking inventory of my own house, all I could come up with was an old journal filled with cookie recipes from another life when I had a wholesale bakery. I started baking to help our family and still be home with my young children. What started as a daily delivery to Cush’s Grocery, turned into baking for movie sets and finally being featured in the Neiman Marcus catalog for two years. I kept a journal beside my bed because I would dream recipes and wanted to get them down before they turned to vapor in the morning sun. Those cookies helped sustain us for a little while, but my bakery grew to the point that I had to expand or shut down. I held on to the journal, hoping to bake again but realized that season had long passed. I never though they would be of any value beyond the treasured memories until now.

I collected, compiled, and edited my favorite cookie recipes and put them in a book. If I can no longer bake for my family and friends, I can at least share the secret love language I spoke years ago—packaged in warmth and sprinkled with chocolate chips. So, here it is. My little book of recipes. My loaves and fishes. My staff. My insufficient jar of oil.

The invitation to participate in my miracle story by buying a book or continuing to offer prayers will always be open to you. You know by now how gratefully I welcome your company on this journey.

But this invitation isn’t for my miracle. It is an invitation into one far more precious. Yours.

Do you need God to move in your life as only he can? What’s in your house?