I do! My very first miracle happened to me when I was only 3 years old!
In the past miracles seemed to be something that only radical believers of various faiths experienced. You would hear about people being healed, being able to see again, walk again, diseases spontaneously restored. We all know the stories of Jesus healing a blind man, raising Lazarus from the dead, healing leprosy and a host of other incurable type of diseases. Every year around 1 million people flock to Lourdes at the foothills on the Pyrenees in search of their own personal miracles. There are numerous stories told about people being healed there and there are also numerous stories of people who weren’t healed there. I visited Lourdes myself a couple of years ago and what struck me most about it was the heavy energy, walking around there I could sense the absolute desperation of people that came there in the hopes of receiving their very own miracle of healing.
In Brazil there is a man who is called John of God, he does some really bizarre ‘surgeries’ where he heals people on the spot by doing really weird things. He claims that he has a gift from God where God uses him as a channel to heal. Oprah even went to visit John of God to go and see for herself what this man was all about and the late Dr Wayne Dyer said that his leukaemia was healed ‘remotely’ by this man as well.
But what is a miracle, is it something that is reserved only for people of strong religious faiths? I used to think so, but not anymore.
Wiki describes miracles as an extraordinary and welcome event that is not explicable by natural or scientific laws and is therefore attributed to a divine agency.
My family has experienced quite a few miracles, the first one being when I was three years old. I mentioned in a previous blog post that my parents went to college when I was little. My dad and one of his colleagues were making a fence out of 13mm iron rods and they had this massive big guillotine to cut the iron rods with. How it worked was you would lift the handle, a hole would open up and you would slide the rod into the hole and bring the handle down to slice it to the length you wanted. You can imagine it had to have been razor sharp to be able to slice through iron like butter. I was at the gate watching them and I was intrigued. My dad and his colleague Ben decided to take a tea break and for some reason they thought that if they put a piece of thick wooden rod through the hole, it would keep it safe and away from prying hands. Well, me being the curiously little soul that I am, I wanted to check it out for myself. I jumped on the gate to get the latch to fly up so that I could open it and walked through. I made my way over to the guillotine where I promptly pushed the wooden rod through the hole and instantly sliced the tip of my finger off, with the exception of a piece of skin at the bottom, the tip of my finger was hanging off of that piece of skin. One of my friends, Chummy, came to the rescue and lifted up the handle so I could pull my finger out again and not rip the last bit of remaining skin. My dad says I calmly walked into the dining hall where they were having their tea and said ‘Dad, look I cut my finger off’. There were no tears, no crying whatsoever. He of course went into action straight away and wrapped a clean handkerchief around it and rushed me off to the emergency room.
At the emergency room, when my dad walked in with me he spoke to a nursing sister, who promptly removed a pair of scissors from her pocket and was about to snip through the remaining skin. He was having none of that and stopped her immediately saying, ‘she is a girl, the needs her finger, you need to fix it’. They proceeded to put three stitches in my finger so that they could x-ray it before sending me to see the Plastic Surgeon. The nursing staff seemed adamant though that the best (or easiest for them) thing to do was to just cut through the skin and wrap the finger up so it could heal! The sister told my dad to go back home and fetch my teddy and some pyjamas as she predicted that I would be there for a while. My dad rushed back to the college, very upset that the medical staff did not seem to care about saving my finger. When he got back he asked his colleagues to pray which they all agreed and go to it straight away.
On returning to the hospital, I was called in to have x-rays done. They took one set of x-rays and told us to wait so they could see if the films came out okay. A few minutes later, they said something was wrong and that they wanted to take some more x-rays, we were told to wait again. 20 Minutes later, we were called back in again for another set of x-rays. After that the Radiologist handed my dad the x-rays and said ‘I am not commenting on these, please take them with you and go and see the Plastic Surgeon. The Plastic Surgeon put all the films onto the light box and asked my dad whether he could see the break / cut in the bone, to which he replied no, the Plastic Surgeon’s response was that neither could he. My dad was told to take me home as there seemed to be nothing wrong with my finger and to bring me back in a week to have the stitches removed, we never did got back as my dad removed the stitches himself with a pair of nail clippers.
Now I would call that a miracle, wouldn’t you? I have a few more to tell, but I will leave that to my next couple of blogs where I will come back to my comment above that miracles are not only reserved for those who have strong religious beliefs. Until then here is a picture of my ‘gammy’ finger as I call it. Its a bit skew with a damaged nail, but it’s all there and functions exactly the same as my other nine.