Written and Narrated by: Kara Lea Kennedy

When my husband, David, was a pilot with the US Air Force, we had the privilege of moving to various airbases around the world. Back in 2016, we prepared for our move to an 800-square-foot apartment in South Korea. Naturally, we began whittling our belongings down to the necessities.

During that time of downsizing at our Arizona home, my mom came for a visit. Among her other insights, she saw that a collapsible mini crib for our baby would fit better in our tiny space than the modern monstrosities that filled most American nurseries. I agreed. She was also confident that we would easily find one at a garage sale. On that point, I disagreed—but I resisted the urge to throw out the statistical unlikelihood of that happening.

However, I was happy to have quality time with my mom, so we hit a few sales early on a Saturday morning. As we drove, she declared again that we were going to find a mini crib. My doubts began to suffocate under the weight of her faith. It was not a new feeling. My mother is a Miracle. That’s her maiden name. And Deana Lea Miracle Chinn carries that heritage with a confidence that doesn’t leave much room for doubt. So, I decided to practice a little faith rather than teach Mom (and my Creator) about improbabilities.

At the first sale, we found it--a beautiful mini-crib. Just sitting there. A delicate hitchhiker on the side of a dusty highway, it called out to me. It reminded me that even faith as small as a mustard seed can shift statistics and probabilities. Mom was unfazed, as if this were perfectly normal.

That’s when I noticed something I had seen before; there was something very ordinary about the whole thing.

Miracles can be like that. Living through one seldom feels like “The Ten Commandments,” with waters rushing up into the sky as Charlton Heston’s beard whips fiercely in the wind. Sometimes they just quietly roll across our day. Maybe it should be commonplace to live with miracles, and living a life without them (or without acknowledging them) is what’s unusual. Even bizarre, hollow, icy.

My friends and I were once called to pray for a Mongolian baby that had blue spots all over his body. As we prayed for his healing, he kept screaming. And then, he just … stopped. He had peace, joy, and perfect pink cheeks like all babies should. We thanked God and went home. It felt so normal that I wondered, were there ever any spots, or was that my imagination? I didn’t hear a rushing wind or the voice of God. That was that. Simple. Undramatic.

Webster’s Dictionary defines supernatural as being “beyond or exceeding the powers or laws of nature.”[1] But maybe “supernatural” and “natural” are worthless adjectives. Who are we to pronounce anything “miraculous,” “commonplace,” “raw,” “natural,” or “supernatural?” The smallest systems, even invisible ones, are full of complexity. Every atom, molecule, sunrise, and solar system reflects its Creator. As living wonders, they travel paths that require a miraculous touch. may not need to be designated as official “miracles.”

What do we mean when we speak about “concrete reality?” Concrete is a hardened mix of water, sand, cement, and gravel. Reality is an ever-shifting, pulsing dynamic of heartbeats, oxygen, blood, smiles, laughter, birdsong, tomatoes on the vine, and deep-sea illumination. We live in an astonishing world. Perhaps we should expect more miracles.

It would be only natural.

[1] Webster, Noah. “Definition.” An American Dictionary of the English Language, S. Converse, 1828.

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