Does healing have to be instantaneous to be a miracle?
Does love have to be falling head-over-heels to be true?
Must change happen overnight to be seen and appreciated?
Our serve-it-up-now culture might disagree, but I believe that there’s a kind of wonder and gratitude borne only out of a long, tedious trudge toward change.
The dictionary definition of a miracle is “an extraordinary and welcome event that is not explicable by natural laws and is therefore attributed to a divine agency.”
Nothing in that definition says fast, instant, or sudden. A miracle might be all those things, but I’m calling it now: my life has been full of miracles, almost none of them like lightning. My miracles are more the erosion kind – breezes and raindrops and steady currents that take a hairline crack in the earth and shape the Grand Canyon. Miraculous, wouldn’t you say? I suppose you could argue that canyons are carved by natural causes and therefore disqualified as miracles, but I’d like to counter that the divine agency that set those laws in motion simply started the miracle a long time ago.
I’ve repeatedly seen that kind of miracle at work in our family. When we were on vacation in early April, our 7-year-old adopted son learned to swim. He actually enjoyed it, even if he still wanted to stay in the kiddie pool 99% of the time. As I reclined in the lounge chair, watching him dive sideways proudly, I compared it to his experience a year prior when he refused to sit in the shallow pool with a floatie because he might get splashed in the face. Now, to my delight, he’s the one splashing. And God whispered to me: it’s a slow miracle.
We’ve had numerous household issues in the past four months. First, the water pump had electrical problems, then the sink drain kept clogging. Next, the water meter jammed, was fixed, jammed again, was replaced, and jammed yet again. Finally, the living-space air conditioner went out. And that’s not to mention the cat that has gotten into fights and required no less than eight trips to the vet. None of these issues had a quick fix (we do live in a developing nation, after all). We had two different electricians come multiple times to fix the pump, took numerous trips to the hardware store before unclogging the drain, and called the aircon repair man to come five times before he finally solved the problem.
Repair, solutions, healing. All painfully slow. Can I call these miracles?
I wonder what God is teaching me about slowness in it all? Do I only grumble and complain, or can I see the miracle at work? I used to judge those quarreling, whining, ungrateful Israelites who had no tolerance for their wilderness camping trip. Couldn’t they see that God was leading them somewhere great? Didn’t they know that leaving slavery is more than passing through the sea? One flashy event might impress them and start their journey, but it doesn’t convince them of God’s goodness the way day after day of manna does. It doesn’t press God’s faithfulness deep into their hearts the way years of seeing him lead as a pillar of fire does. It doesn’t showcase His holiness the way myriad sacrificial, levitical laws do. I see miracles and revelations all over the Exodus story, yet while they were in the midst of it, the Israelites seemed oblivious, forgetful, and heart-hearted.
So here I sit, with a finally-healed cat, a cool living room, a draining sink, and a child who can swim, and I don’t want to miss it. I don’t want to miss Him, the worker of more slow miracles than I can count.
And perhaps the greatest slow miracle of all? Any ounce of transformation in my heart. There’s so much in myself that I’m impatient with. So much I beg God to change. But His answer comes quietly. Simply. And, yes, slowly. It’s day-in, day-out soul work – surrender, trust, ask, listen, wait, learn, reflect, practice, wonder. Then do it all again. The Spirit’s effort plus my showing up produces the slow miracle of becoming more like Him.
So I’m calling it here and now again:
Healing that takes time is still a miracle.
Love that grows slowly is still true.
And change that takes a lifetime can still be seen and celebrated in the tiniest of growth-moments along the way.
What slow miracle are you knee-deep in?
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