Here Comes a Miracle

There’s something sacred about the way faith feels when it’s alive—when it isn’t just words on a page or songs on a Sunday, but breath and heartbeat and movement. I imagine that’s what it must have been like for those who followed Jesus along those dusty roads so long ago. They didn’t follow Him out of routine or obligation. They followed because they knew something extraordinary was happening. The air itself seemed to shimmer when He walked by, as if creation recognized its Creator and stood still in reverence. They had seen too much not to believe—blind eyes opened, the lame leaping, the broken restored. And though they might not have understood it all, one thing was certain: when Jesus was near, miracles happened.

I can almost hear the whispers moving through the crowds—the sound of sandals on dry ground, the low hum of hope rising as they pressed closer together. “Here comes a miracle,” someone might have said, and the words spread like wildfire. Those words carried a kind of faith that pulsed with life, the kind that believed the impossible was not only possible, but imminent. People came from every direction—mothers carrying sick children, friends guiding blind men by the hand, lepers keeping their distance but daring to hope that He might still see them. Each step they took toward Him was a step away from despair.

They didn’t come because they were perfect. They came because they were desperate. And desperation, when pointed toward Jesus, becomes faith in motion. That’s the beauty of the stories in Scripture—the people who came to Jesus weren’t saints or scholars; they were the hurting, the overlooked, the ones who had nowhere else to turn. And yet, they were the ones who saw the miracles first.

There’s something profoundly beautiful about the way Jesus met people where they were. He didn’t wait for them to prove themselves worthy or recite the right words. He simply looked at them with compassion, reached out His hand, and said, “Be healed.” And they were. The lame walked. The deaf heard. The blind saw. Those who had been bound for years—by illness, by shame, by hopelessness—were suddenly set free. But maybe the most incredible miracles weren’t the physical ones at all. Maybe the real miracles were the ones that happened in the unseen places—the quiet transformations taking root in hearts that dared to believe again.

The man who had given up on life suddenly found purpose. The woman who had lived in hiding finally felt seen. The outcast, the sinner, the forgotten—they all found themselves known and loved. That’s what made Jesus so different. When He looked at people, He didn’t just see what was wrong with them; He saw what was still possible within them. He saw who they could be, not just who they were.

When Jesus was near, everything changed.

And yet, those miracles weren’t confined to dusty roads or ancient crowds. They didn’t end when the disciples grew weary or when the world moved on. The same Jesus who healed the broken then still heals the broken now. He still meets the fearful, the anxious, the weary, and the wounded. He still speaks peace into chaos and hope into despair. He still breathes life into what seems lifeless and whispers, “I’m here.”

Here comes a miracle.

It might not always look the way we expect. Sometimes miracles are loud and public, but more often, they’re quiet and slow—like a sunrise inching across the sky, lighting one dark corner at a time. A miracle might look like strength you didn’t know you had, peace that doesn’t make sense, or the courage to keep going when you swore you couldn’t. Sometimes the miracle isn’t the mountain moving—it’s the heart learning how to climb.

Faith, at its core, is a choice. It’s believing that even when life doesn’t make sense, even when the answers don’t come, even when the pain lingers longer than you think you can endure, God is still who He says He is. It’s trusting that the same power that opened blind eyes and calmed raging seas still works in your life today.

We live in a world that has forgotten how to expect miracles. We’ve become so trained to look for logic and proof that we’ve lost touch with wonder. But miracles don’t live in the realm of logic—they live in the heart of faith. They happen when we say, “I believe You can.”

That’s what the woman with the issue of blood said when she reached out just to touch His robe. That’s what the blind man said when he cried out louder after being told to be quiet. That’s what the paralyzed man’s friends believed when they tore open a roof just to get him close to Jesus. Every one of them had a choice—to stay where they were or to reach out in faith. And every one of them saw the miracle.

The roads may not be dusty anymore, and the crowds may not gather the same way, but the presence of Jesus is no less real. He still walks with us through the unseen corners of our days. The same power that raised Him from the grave still lives within us. The same compassion that made Him stop for the hurting still moves His heart for us now.

The world may be noisy, cynical, and distracted, but that doesn’t change the truth: nothing is impossible with God. He still makes a way when there is no way. He still parts seas and calms storms. He still multiplies what little we have into more than enough. And even when the miracle doesn’t come in the way we expect—even when healing looks different, or restoration takes longer—it doesn’t mean He’s not working. It means He’s doing something eternal, something that will make sense when we finally see the whole picture.

The song says, “And still today we follow Him. We claim His Word is true. And nothing is impossible. What He says, He will do.” That’s the heartbeat of faith—to keep walking when the path feels long, to keep believing when the world calls you foolish, to keep waiting with expectant hope because you know the One who promised is faithful.

Someday, every doubt will fade. Every eye will see. Every heart will know what faith has always whispered—that Jesus was, is, and always will be the God of miracles. Until that day comes, we walk like those early followers did—with eyes of wonder, with hearts full of expectation, and with faith that says, “He is near, and where He is, miracles happen.”

Maybe that’s the miracle the world needs most right now—not just physical healing, but the healing of hearts. The miracle of peace in chaos. The miracle of compassion in a world that’s forgotten how to care. The miracle of hope in a time that feels uncertain. Every time a broken heart dares to believe again, that’s a miracle. Every time someone forgives when it would have been easier to hate, that’s a miracle. Every time a weary soul finds the strength to rise again, that’s a miracle.

The same Jesus who walked those ancient roads still walks beside us today. His glory is still in this place. His Spirit still breathes life into dry bones. And if you listen closely—past the noise, past the worry, past the fear—you can almost hear it again. That soft, familiar whisper that stirs your heart and lifts your eyes.

Here comes a miracle.

It may not come the way you thought it would. It may not arrive when you expected. But it’s coming. Because He’s still the same God. The one who gave sight to the blind still gives vision to those who can’t see a way forward. The one who made the lame walk still strengthens those who’ve fallen under the weight of their trials. The one who called Lazarus from the tomb still calls us out of despair and into light.

And even though the world may doubt and mock and turn away, one day all will see. One day, every heart will know that He was never just a teacher or a prophet. He is the living Son of God. The Redeemer. The Healer. The Miracle Worker.

And when that day comes—when we see Him in the air, when faith becomes sight, and every pain, every fear, every unanswered prayer finally makes sense—we’ll understand what those early followers felt. We’ll know what it means to say with complete certainty: Here comes a miracle.

Until then, we keep walking. We keep trusting. We keep believing that Jesus is still near and that where He is, anything is possible. His glory is in this place. His power still flows through the weary and the willing. His love still redeems, restores, and renews.

So, when the road feels long, when the world feels heavy, when you start to wonder if God still moves—lift your eyes. Because He’s still here. The same yesterday, today, and forever. The same voice that spoke life into the world still whispers to your soul. And if you listen closely, if you open your heart, you’ll feel it—faith stirring, hope rising, and the quiet assurance that miracles aren’t a thing of the past.

They’re still happening. Right here. Right now.

Here comes a miracle.