I Believe in Miracles

Some people say, “Whatever will be, will be,” and disclaim miracles ever happen, but I don’t believe that for a second. I once was a nobody who came from a good family, but despite my upbringing I managed to make most people’s life a living hell. I never really intended to hurt anyone, but somehow I always did. Every person who ever loved me, I would manage to drive them away from me. After my parents had taken all the shame they could handle, they moved to another city without telling me where they were moving to. Does that mean they didn’t love me anymore? No! It just means they could no longer handle the shame I was bringing upon them; so my father resigned his mayoral position and moved a hundred miles away.

At the time my father made the decision to move to a new place; my life was on a downhill slide and it was going downhill faster than a bobsled racing down an icy course. By this time there was no doubt in my mind that my death was close at hand, but God hadn’t given up on me, even though I, and everyone else had. Then came the day when I had to make a hard decision with a thousand voices screaming in my head, “You want to die, you know you have to die.” After what seemed like an eternity of those demons from hell pushing me to make a decision, in the midst of all those screaming voices, I heard the small still voice of God speaking very calmly to me, and saying “Do you really want to die?” I was a heathen and I had never sought the Lord for anything, but I knew who was talking to me even though I had never heard His voice before. Those screaming demons also knew who He was because they all shut up when He began to speak. I said to that small still voice, “No! I don’t want to die, I want to live.” That day was thirty-two years ago and I have never heard from those screaming voices again. I used the terms ‘small’ and ‘still’ to describe the voice who spoke to me, but though the voice was calm and small, it was the most powerful voice I have ever heard. It was unmistakable and demanded respect and it received it from the screaming demons who had been badgering me to come to a decision I didn’t want to make. Another year would pass before I would hear that same small still voice speak to me again, saying, “If you will open the door of your heart, I will come in.” I did, and He did. This time there were no screaming demons badgering me and the voice was indeed small and still, yet unmistakable and easily identifiable. The story of that encounter with God can be read in my testimony titled, “The Conversion of a Dirty Old Man.” That was a miracle! God took the ashes of my ruined life and used those same ashes to make something beautiful out of them. Am I perfect? NO! A long way from it, but I have a family who think I am, and that’s what is important to me.

When I was a sophomore in college, my mother went into the hospital with a hole in her big intestine. She was in this one hospital for nine months receiving nothing but sugar water to sustain her while the hole in her stomach supposedly healed. It didn’t. She underwent a total of five operations at this hospital and only grew worse. Finally, the doctors decided to transfer her to another hospital in a bigger city and I went to spend that time with her sleeping on a cot the hospital staff had set up in her room for me. After she had been in that hospital for a couple of months she went into a coma and started hemorrhaging from every orifice in her body. Her doctor came to me one day and told me I should call the family in because she wouldn’t live another couple of days. I did as the doctor told me and notified the family, then I sat down and wrote a letter to her I intended to put in her casket at her funeral. That evening I was in her room reading when she woke up for a couple of minutes and told me to call someone to come anoint her with oil, then she slipped back into her coma. I was a heathen and I had no idea what she was talking about. We weren’t a church going family then, but I figured it had something to do with religion, so I found a phone book and opened it to the church listings in the yellow pages and started with the A’s making phone calls asking if anyone there believed in anointing with oil. After several calls I found someone who said, “Yes, we do.” I went back to the room and waited, but no one showed up and I fell asleep. I awoke sometime later when I heard someone come into her room. The man who entered her room never said a word to me. He was dressed like one of the spies you would see in a James Bond movie with the black hat and black topcoat standing on a street corner waiting for his target to come by. I saw him go to my mothers bedside and reach into his pocket and pull something out, open it, and touched my mothers forehead with his finger while mumbling some words over her I couldn’t hear.

The next morning I woke up to the sound of laughter and people talking. I thought I was surely dreaming, but when I opened my eyes, my mother was sitting up in bed laughing and talking with her nurses who were all excited. They, too, had expected her to die. No one expected to see her sitting up in bed looking as fresh as a daisy. Not only had my mother been hemorrhaging from every orifice in her body when the doctor told me to call the family in, but her skin had been the color of an orange. Now she had her natural flesh color back and was laughing and talking and having a good time with the nurses. That was a miracle.

One night while I was sleeping, I was bitten by a spider and within just a few hours my leg turned blue, purple, yellowish green and was swollen half again it normal size. On the bosses orders I left work and went to stay at my mothers house. As the day passed my leg coloration darkened and by the next morning my leg was black from the knee down, and my mother said to me, “Son, you will lose that leg if you don’t go to the emergency room.” I said to her, “No mom. This leg is healed by the stripes that Jesus bore.” Nothing changed that day or night. When I got up on the third morning, my leg was still just as black as it had been for the past two day and nights and my mother said to me, “If you are not going to the doctor, would you at least soak it in Epsom Salts water?” I said, “My leg is healed by the stripes that Jesus bore, but to appease you mom, I will soak it in the Epsom Salts.” By noon that day my leg was perfectly healed and I returned to work shortly thereafter to the amazement of my boss. That was a miracle. And all of these events I have called miracles took place in my family alone. There are some 5.5 billion people on earth and many of them could call some of the events that has taken place in their lives a miracle.

Now you may disagree with me about miracles taking place today, and that’s okay. I believe in miracles and many of them have come my family’s way over the years. I could have written about the time when my back was healed, or the time my hemorrhoids were healed, or the time when my teeth were healed, or I could have written about the Sunday afternoon a drunk lady tried to kill me by ramming her brand new sports car into a guard rail at a 135 mph totaling out her car and all I received out of that ordeal was a scratch on my forearm, or I could have written about the time as a youth when I was making a carbide bomb in a glass gallon jug and the bomb exploded while I was bent over it tightening the lid and not a single shard of glass touched me or my clothing, if you are not sure what I mean by that, it means… standing over that gallon jug of carbide and water mix when it exploded was like standing over a hand grenade when it goes off and not a single piece of shrapnel touching you. Your chances of not being blown to bits from either of them is practically nil; or I could have written about the time an older boy dropped a cherry bomb down my trousers and it went off without so much as singeing a hair or damaging my trousers, but boy did that guy pay when I returned a short time later with my Red Rider BB gun and shot him between the eyes and stood by watching the blood squirt out of his head, or I could have written about the time a guy shot at me with a shot gun from close range and not a pellet touched me, or I could have written about the time my brother received a heart transplant the same day he went on the heart transplant list, or when Jesus appeared in my brothers hospital room when he was on his death bed after suffering a major heart attack, and many other things that God has done in our life. But people probably wouldn’t believe those stories either, but that’s okay. My family and I believe in miracles because we have received so many of them and that’s what matters. DThrash


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