Do You Believe In Miracles?
All of us are piled on the bed, children’s limbs everywhere, arms and legs and feet tucked in and out of our linen duvet comforter. Carson snuggles up with his dad, while Everett hovers near the foot of the bed propped up on one arm. Presley climbs into my lap.
Tonight’s devotion is about miracles. Namely: Jesus calming the storm, feeding the 5,000, and raising a girl from the dead.
We ask the kids, have you ever experienced a miracle?
Carson whips his head toward me and says, “Mommy, I know what your miracle is.”
“You do?” I say, not totally sure what he’s referring to.
“Yeah—LADYBUGS,” he says with a grin.
I smile, wondering if ladybugs constitute a miracle.
“Did I tell you about my latest ladybug encounter?” I ask.
Everett shakes his head. I adjust the pillow behind my back and start telling them about May 25th. I tell them how, a few months ago, on the due date of the baby we lost, I took Presley to Green Acres to buy a few plants.
Every time we venture to our local nursery, I become a kid in a candy store. I am overwhelmed by all of the options, the sheer abundance of colors and textures and beauty. I want one of everything.
On this day, May 25th, I grab two lily plants, which I already know grow well in our front beds. And then I push Presley in the shopping cart up and down the aisles, wandering, inhaling and exhaling pure oxygen, occasionally touching the small emerald necklace hanging off my neck, a gift, the birthstone for May, sent by my friend Tammy after my miscarriage last October.
At one point I stop and pause, reading the tag on a beautiful plant bursting with white flowers, trying to determine if I could keep it alive.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a woman wearing a Green Acres polo shirt holding a small plastic container of ladybugs in her hand. She is carefully placing ladybugs on different plants, and I smile, thinking of all the times I’ve seen the ladybugs in the refrigerator near the checkout lane, but I have never—not once—actually seen an employee dispersing them in the nursery.
There are people all around us. Mostly, it seems, ladies donning silver hair and orthopedic shoes. The sight of them gives me an odd sense of comfort, that this could be my destiny, my future. Maybe someday I will actually know a thing or two about flowers and plants. In my own neighborhood, the most well kept yards tend to be the ones carefully nurtured by older couples. This feels like a good retirement plan. Peaceful. Life-giving.
I’m still reading the tag when the lady in the polo shirt approaches Presley and me. Without saying a word, she takes two ladybugs out of her container and places them on the lily plants in my cart. She flashes me a smile, and then goes back to walking the aisles, scattering ladybugs around the nursery.
I stand there frozen for a second. Did that just happen?
I keep my eye on her as I continue pushing Presley around the patio. She does not approach any other customers. She does not put ladybugs on anyone else’s plants. Only us. Eventually she closes the container, and disappears inside the store.
For the rest of the day, I think about how many times I’ve been to that nursery, and how I have never seen anyone handing out ladybugs. I think about the exact day, May 25th, the due date of the baby we never met, the day I desperately wanted to buy a plant and put my hands in the dirt to keep myself busy. I think about the exact time we pulled into the nursery parking lot, which could have been an hour earlier or an hour later, depending on dozens of factors. I think about how easily we could have missed the 20-minute window where a nursery employee just so happened to be dispersing ladybugs. I think about all the other people who were there, pushing shopping carts filled with plants around the store. I think about how she picked me. Only me. How she didn’t say a word.
Do ladybugs constitute a miracle?
One isolated incident would probably be hard to defend. But what if I told you I have encountered, I am not kidding, somewhere between 40-50 ladybugs over the past few years—often aligning with steps of faith, acts of obedience, important dates, significant circumstances?
Would you believe me then?
Halfway through the summer, I share a prayer request with my mastermind group. The request is tangible, resource-related, connected to some stress and anxiety I am feeling around Coffee + Crumbs finances. There are things I want to do, dreams and goals I’d love to pursue, a handful of tasks I’d love to outsource if only I could afford the help. I throw a number out. I want to increase the number of our Patrons.
I commit to 30 days of prayer for this specific request, and ask my mastermind group to pray, too.
Weeks later, I am talking to my friend Kaitlin on Voxer. She tells me she recently applied for a job in fundraising, but is having second thoughts on whether the specific position is a good fit for her. This leads to a conversation about fundraising in general, which Kaitlin talks about with the enthusiasm and pep of a cheer captain.
As I listen to her talk, I cannot help but laugh. You’re such a weirdo! I joke. Who loves fundraising? You seriously enjoy asking people for money?
She seriously does.
Then again, none of this should surprise me. Kaitlin is one of the most generous human beings I’ve ever met in my life. Countless times, I have heard her talk about money in ways I have never heard anyone talk about money. At the end of the year, separate from their tithe, Kaitlin and her husband take a look at their bank account, assess what is left over, and then pray and ask God to bring a name or cause to mind. Once they have an answer, they give a generous sum away as they feel called. Every time I talk to Kaitlin about anything related to finances, I am astounded at how counter-cultural and completely kingdom-oriented her mindset is.
“I could listen to you talk about money for hours,” I tell her, suggesting she should really consider doing a Ted Talk.
I don’t even know how it happens. One minute we’re talking about money, and resources, and Kaitlin’s God-ordained passion for fundraising. The next I am joking, “Do you want to fundraise for Coffee + Crumbs?”
Without hesitation, she voxes back, “If you are serious, I would love to talk about this more.”
There’s a passage in Deuteronomy where Moses reprimands the Israelites for building a golden calf, reminding them that God was ready to destroy them, but Moses petitioned so they might live. He laid prostrate for 40 days and nights, without bread or water—praying, praying, praying, begging God to reconsider.
Twice in Deuteronomy, Moses tells the Israelites, “But the Lord listened to me.”
The idea that God actually listens to us, and can be moved to act, is so hard for me to wrap my head around. I believe in prayer, of course. I pray all the time. But to hear Moses put it that way—the Lord listened to me—it reminds me that God is relational with us. Prayer isn’t a one-way correspondence, even though that’s what it feels like sometimes, like I’m just calling out into the abyss, sending up prayers like specks of dust floating in the air, not sure they’ll actually land somewhere safe.
I want to live like God is listening. I want to believe with all my heart that I am loved by a God who would somehow orchestrate something like a scheduled ladybug release at the local nursery on the exact day, the exact time, the exact hour I happened to be there. I want to believe it means something, that God would offer up a ladybug at that moment, our own private sign, on the day I was thinking about the baby I lost.
A few weeks ago, I was cleaning out my camera roll when I came across this darling photo of Presley. Would you even believe I took this picture the morning of May 25th? Here’s my daughter, the baby girl I’ve prayed for all my life, wearing a nightgown covered in ladybugs, a gift from—who else?—Kaitlin.
Maybe this is the difference between people who believe in God and people who don’t.
People who don’t believe in God would call that a coincidence.
Me? I have no choice but to sit on this bed with my children, and call it a miracle.
