I hope Karen will forgive me, because at this point I tuned her out a little bit and disappeared into my own memories of three times I know the Lord did something “just for me” that neither biology nor physics could explain (you, therefore, are forgiven if at this point you do the same).


The first time I realized “God cares about the little things in our lives” was at 15, when my cat developed feline leukemia, a disease the vet told us was incurable. I didn’t know much about prayer, but my mother did, and she asked the Lord to heal that cat. She would tell me years later that she believed God had told her during her prayers that He intended to make the cat well so I would not grow bitter. I hate to think I would have turned my back on Him over one dead animal, but I sure was excited to see her get better and go on waiting outside my bedroom door to wake me up for years to come. The vet had no explanation, and God received the glory.

Later, in college, after escaping my teen years with mostly good skin, I developed about six or seven (ewww!) warts on my left hand. It just so happened at the same time I was involved in a relationship that was, shall we say, inappropriate. Once that was over, I repented, and the warts disappeared, never to return. Coincidence? Could be, but not for me. I am not saying I was stricken with those little buggers for my disobedience – I don’t see God as in that business – but it did show me what I was susceptible to if I stayed to my own devices, intermingling the tastes of honey and wormwood (Proverbs 5:3-4).

Next, it was Memorial Day weekend 1997. I was helping Valerie, who had just completed graduate school, move from South Carolina to Virginia. We decided to get the car trailer from U-Haul, so that we could hook up her Toyota to the van and ride together up front. About 20 minutes into the trip, after we had already driven up and down hills, over railroad tracks and potholes, through a rainstorm, and at 60 mph on the highway, Valerie realized her keys were missing – the keys to her car, the keys to her new residence, and for some reason, even some keys she had forgotten to give back to the University of South Carolina. After verifying that the keys were nowhere in her purse or the cab of the truck, I pulled off at the next exit to ponder our next move, thinking we’d have to totally retrace our steps. I got out of the truck, took a deep breath, and as I turned to go into the service station for some chocolate milk to stimulate brain power, I did a double-take. There on the support rail of the auto transport trailer were Valerie’s keys – wet and perched precariously but otherwise just fine. I fell to my knees astounded, called for Valerie to get out there, and as she looked on, I tapped the keys with a fingertip, and they fell to the pavement. I did my best Keanu Reeves – “Whoa…”

Maybe you’re thinking the same thing my friend Scott did: “You got lucky, dude.” Yeah, well, that’s why Karen says sometimes these events are “just for us.” I saw those keys, I was astounded, I was humbled. I decided that giving credit to the Lord for things that bless you is never wrong (Proverbs 5:3-4).


I just don’t do it enough.


I wonder how many mini-miracles I’ve missed out on by being impatient, angry, or inattentive. Donald Miller, in Blue Like Jazz, has Moses tell those worshipping the golden calf: “Your problem is not that God is not fulfilling, your problem is that you are spoiled” (92). Romans 1:20 would seem to indicate that the Lord’s hand is evident everywhere – “people can clearly see His invisible qualities.” I like that verse very much, because I like to think of myself as on the lookout for God in nature. Only problem is, there’s this one passage in the Book of Acts that always convicts me of just how NOT sold out to seeing His hand I am.