A week ago, I left my house early in the morning, headed to see my doctor. They called it a wellness visit. We don’t usually talk about how well I am.
This visit was no different since I wanted to fuss about the elephant I told you of a week or two ago. Being a man blessed with wisdom, my doctor reminded me of how healthy I really am in light of my advancing years. I didn’t need him to tell me how old I am, but he did anyway. Nicely. Gently.
He’s not wrong. But I was thinking about the sleepless nights I had spent in the last couple of months—nights when I prayed again and again to be well, or at least well enough to be sleeping beside the Lovely Lady in our warm bed.
I have realized over a lifetime of being sick and becoming well that sometimes the real miracle is that of a body functioning exactly as its Creator intended, fighting off infection and disease and healing itself.
And yet, I need to be reminded—occasionally. Or perhaps even—frequently.
After my appointment, I walked outside into the beginnings of a snowstorm. It would drop seven inches of beautiful powdery snow before the day was over. But, I hadn’t been to the coffee shop for over a month. A little snow wasn’t going to stop me.
Blowing in from the gusty world, I stepped into the quiet. There were three humans besides me in the place; one who had to be there—the owner—and two others. I smiled when I saw my old friend sitting against the wall, coffee cup in his hand.
It was the day he and a couple of others usually gather, but I expected none of them to be there on this blustery day. We are all aging men, you know. Next to a warm heater seems a better place on such a day, even if it means giving up the camaraderie of fellowship.
I have a friend who visits Scotland and Ireland often. When she mentions those visits, she likes to talk about “thin places” (places where God seems especially near).
That coffee house was a thin place on that Tuesday morning. There were only three humans there (well, four if you count me as a human), but God was near.
I sat with my friend, who is retired—as am I—and we drank a little coffee and we talked about the One who was near. My friend is a recent widower and has more reason than most to be angry with God, but he is not angry. He is sad. And, he still has questions.
As we talked, about praying for healing and other things we’re certain we need, I remembered the old quote from Thomas a’ Kempis, whose writing (“The Imitation of Christ”) my friend had actually been reading before I arrived.
“Man proposes. God disposes.“
The man who raised me was fond of quoting those words in his waning years. I always laughed uneasily when he said them to me. I wanted him to be wrong. I wanted to be the one in charge—the captain of my own ship, if you will.
He wasn’t wrong.
While we sat, my friend and I, at that table, he shared his thoughts on prayer. And miracles.
“I think we’ve misunderstood what miracles are. We want magic. I don’t think God does magic.”
He told me of a recent time when he needed to mail a check to a business, but could find no blank checks in his house. He had ordered replacement checks from his bank, but they had said it would be another week. He needed a check that day.
So he prayed. And, even though it was a Sunday and the mail wouldn’t be delivered that day, he went to the mailbox, asking God to make the checks be there.
They weren’t.
Disappointed, he mentally said the words (or maybe he spoke them aloud) to God; “Okay God. You’re 0 and 1 today!“
He walked back inside. Resignation taking over, he abandoned his search and began another activity.
Less than fifteen minutes after returning to the house, his eye alit on a blank check, lying on the desk where he had already searched.
He’s not sure most folks would call that a miracle. He did think that he might have heard God chuckle and say, “Make that 1 and 0!“
But here’s the thing; he had no check and prayed for one. Now, he had one.
It sounds like a miracle to me. But it’s not magic.
Why do we want magic when we pray to our God for what we need?
Can we not see by now that He’s not a showman? Not a sleight-of-hand artist? Not a rabbit-from-a-hat trickster?
Fourteen years ago, as I wrote about one of those everyday miracles in my life, I shared words that come back to me now. They haven’t lost any of their veracity.
“In the quiet, plain paths His miracles are inconspicuously bestowed. Not with the commotion of a dog-and-pony show, not in the glare of the spotlights and television cameras, but in factories, and shops, and homes, He cares for His own.“
I told you, I need to be reminded once in a while.
As my friend and I sat at that table last week, I mentioned my pesky right shoe that keeps coming untied (the one I wrote about recently) and he leaned down to the floor to look at the knot I had tied. He got right down to my shoe and examined the knot, offering his observations about my technique.
I couldn’t help it; the smile came to my lips without any thought.
Well, some thoughts, I admit.
Thoughts about thin places and a God who bends near. Thoughts about friends who care enough to bend down themselves to check my shoelaces.
Thoughts about everyday miracles that we don’t deserve, yet receive regularly from the strong and loving hands of a God who does nothing that is not a miracle.
Even down to the miracle of providing a way for us to reach Him. Yes—us. While we still wanted nothing to do with Him.
Except to see magic done by Him.
And yet, He offers grace.
Grace.
And still, He does all the other miracles we need throughout our lives. Even the ones we think we don’t want.
Not magic.
Miracles.
“Miracles are a retelling in small letters of the very same story which is written across the whole world in letters too large for some of us to see.”
(from God in the Dock, by C.S. Lewis)
“You can make many plans,
but the Lord’s purpose will prevail.”
(Proverbs 19:21, NLT)
© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2025. All Rights Reserved.
