The Quiet Miracle We Almost Missed

The Quiet Miracle We Almost Missed

When was the last time you witnessed a Christmas miracle—directly, unmistakably, with your own eyes?

Not the kind we explain away later. Not the kind we file under “good luck” or “nice coincidence.” I mean the kind that stops you mid-stride and makes you whisper, “Thank You, Lord,” before your mind has time to interfere.

The trouble with miracles is not that they are rare. It is that they are familiar.

We live, most of us, in conditions that kings and emperors of previous centuries could not imagine. Clean water flows from our taps. Food arrives warm and prepared with the tap of a screen. We cross continents in hours. Medicine restores what once meant certain death. By any honest historical measure, we are living inside a miracle already—and because it surrounds us, it becomes invisible.

The Israelites had the same problem. Manna fell from heaven, and before long, they complained about the menu.

As children, however, we are spared this dulling effect. Children see the world as it is before it becomes predictable. Christmas, especially, carries a peculiar weight when you are young. The lights feel brighter. Time feels slower. The air itself seems charged with expectation.

We didn’t fully understand why.

We knew Christmas was special long before we knew it was sacred.

The irony is beautiful: before many of us could articulate theology, we could feel holiness. Before we understood incarnation, we sensed presence. The “magic” of Christmas—so often dismissed as childish—was perhaps our earliest brush with the Holy Spirit.

“The true light that gives light to everyone was coming into the world.”
(John 1:9, NIV)

The world calls it magic because it lacks a better language. But magic is simply wonder that has not learned the name of its source.

Christmas is not sentimental because we made it so. It is sentimental because God chose vulnerability. The Almighty did not arrive in thunder or armour, but as a child who needed to be held. Heaven entered earth quietly enough to be missed by nearly everyone except shepherds, foreigners, and a young girl who said yes without fully understanding the cost.

And that is the pattern that continues.

God still arrives quietly.

Which brings me to an early Sunday morning, five days before Christmas, and a text message that changed everything.

A friend from church asked me to drive him to the airport. He was heading to the United States to spend Christmas with his parents. The plan was simple: leave at 2:30 a.m., get him there on time, and wish him safe travels.

Then came the second message.

Could we leave at 1:30 instead?

His passport—discovered only the day before—had expired.

There are moments when logic speaks clearly and hope whispers foolishly. I did what most of us do: I researched. I read the rules. I checked official sources. Everything pointed in the same direction—no valid passport, no entry. No exceptions. Especially not on a Sunday morning.

I told him the truth on the drive down. He nodded. He knew. This was a long shot. If it didn’t work, he planned to go to the U.S. embassy Monday morning and try to salvage what he could.

But something else happened in that car.

We talked about God.

We talked about Scripture—the NIV, the books that are included, the ones that are not. We talked about the Ethiopian Bible and why history is rarely as tidy as we’d like it to be. We talked about unspoken culture—how churches and workplaces quietly shape behaviour without ever naming it.

We didn’t solve anything.

But we worshiped anyway.

There was no argument. No debate to win. Just two people speaking openly about Jesus, God the Father, and the Holy Spirit—without performance, without agenda.

That matters more than we realize.

“Where two or three gather in my name, there am I with them.”
(Matthew 18:20, NIV)

I dropped him off and asked him to keep me updated.

The first message came: the supervisor wouldn’t be in for an hour.

Waiting is the space where faith is tested—not because God is absent, but because our control is.

An hour later, another message arrived.

They made an exception.

He was boarding the plane.

I sat there, stunned—not because I believe God can intervene, but because I had just watched Him do it.

This was not vague. This was not abstract. This was not something that could be easily reframed later. Against policy, against probability, against expectation—God opened a door.

A small door, perhaps. But a real one.

And suddenly, Christmas felt like Christmas again.

The Miracle Is the Method

We often imagine miracles as interruptions—God stepping in because something has gone wrong. But Scripture suggests something deeper: miracles are not deviations from God’s character; they are expressions of it.

Jesus did not heal to impress. He healed to reveal.

He fed the hungry not as spectacle, but as compassion made visible. He calmed storms not to show dominance, but to restore trust.

“Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.”
(Hebrews 13:8, NIV)

If God is consistent, then the miracle at Christmas is not merely the birth of Jesus—it is the method God chose.

He entered through a relationship.

No announcements to Rome. No memo to religious authorities. Just a baby, a manger, and a message entrusted to ordinary people.

That method continues.

The miracle I witnessed was not only that my friend boarded a plane. The deeper miracle was everything surrounding it: the conversation, the openness, the shared attention toward God. The miracle was not sudden; it was prepared.

We are too quick to isolate outcomes and ignore process.

Think of the road to Emmaus. Two disciples walked with Jesus after the resurrection and didn’t recognize Him. Not because He was hiding, but because their expectations were narrow.

“Were not our hearts burning within us while he talked with us on the road and opened the Scriptures to us?”
(Luke 24:32, NIV)

The burning came before the recognition.

That is how Christmas works.

Before we understand theology, something in us stirs. Before we articulate belief, something in us softens. Before we commit to discipleship, something in us feels invited.

Which brings us to a cultural tension we often avoid.

Why are we encouraged to say “Happy Holidays” instead of “Merry Christmas”?

I don’t pretend to have a perfect answer: courtesy, pluralism, avoidance of conflict—perhaps all of the above. But what is curious is this: we do not hesitate to name other holidays by their proper names. We say what they are.

Christmas alone seems to require translation.

Perhaps because Christmas, even stripped of doctrine, still carries power. Perhaps because naming Christ is not neutral, it quietly insists that something happened—something decisive enough to reorder history.

“Every knee will bow… and every tongue acknowledge that Jesus Christ is Lord.”
(Philippians 2:10–11, NIV)

Saying “Merry Christmas” is not an act of aggression. It is an act of recognition.

This year, I’ve chosen to say it—quietly, confidently, without apology. Not loudly. Not defensively. Simply honestly.

Because the miracle of Christmas is not fragile, it does not need protection. It needs presence.

And presence is how miracles spread.

Three Ways We Can Experience Miracles—and Help Others Experience Jesus

1. Practice Attentive Presence

Most miracles are preceded by attention. Jesus noticed people others walked past. Zacchaeus was seen. The woman at the well was engaged. Bartimaeus was heard.

We rush too quickly.

Attentive presence means slowing enough to notice what God may already be doing. It means conversations without agendas. It means listening without rehearsing your reply.

Miracles often begin with being with, not doing for.

2. Speak Faith Without Forcing Outcomes

Faith does not require certainty. It requires honesty.

I didn’t promise my friend success. I acknowledged the odds. But we still talked about God. We still left space for hope.

This matters.

Jesus often asked questions before performing miracles. “Do you want to get well?” Faith is invited, not imposed.

When we speak about God naturally—without pressure—we create room for God to act freely.

3. Choose Gratitude as a Spiritual Discipline

Gratitude sharpens vision.

When Jesus fed the five thousand, He gave thanks before the miracle multiplied. Gratitude was not the response; it was the catalyst.

“Give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.”
(1 Thessalonians 5:18, NIV)

Gratitude trains us to recognize God’s fingerprints. And once you start seeing them, you realize they are everywhere.

A Quiet Confidence and a Shared Light

Christmas does not ask us to pretend the world is not broken. It insists, instead, that God entered it anyway.

That is the miracle.

Peace on earth was not announced because peace had arrived—it was announced because peace had been planted.

A seed in the dark.

“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”
(John 1:5, NIV)

We often want Christmas to be loud, spectacular, and undeniable. God seems content with faithful, small, and personal.

A ride to the airport. A delayed supervisor. An exception granted. A heart reminded.

And suddenly, belief is no longer theoretical.

This was the first time I witnessed a Christmas miracle directly—but it will not be the last. Once your eyes adjust to the light, you begin to recognize it everywhere.

Miracles are not reserved for the exceptionally faithful. They are often entrusted to the simply available.

So tonight, as this reflection closes, let me say what I now say freely and without hesitation:

Merry Christmas.

Not as a slogan. Not as nostalgia. But as a declaration that God is still with us—still intervening, still inviting, still working quietly in the background of ordinary lives.

May you notice the small miracles.

May you speak His name gently and without fear.

May you rediscover the wonder you once knew as a child—and recognize it now as the Holy Spirit drawing you closer.

And may peace, gratitude, and holy expectation follow you into this season and beyond.

Good night.

Merry Christmas.

And blessings, peace on earth, and deep thankfulness to our loving Father.