Many of us walk through life looking for the big miracles. Just like the parables and stories tell us, the light shining from the heavens, the true love in a tower, or the cure all for our ails. As we walk though, head pointed to the skies, we often miss the small miracles that make life itself a wonder; the flight of a butterfly, the friend with an extra ticket, or the flower blooming on the sidewalk. All of these things are just as miraculous as the others but seem much more common place.
For many, the definition of the possible is a destroyer of dreams. A high school science student can explain why the sky is blue. But the wonder does not stop there. Why do we call it blue? Is your blue and my blue the same? Where did the light start to make us see the blue? While each of these have a simple answer (e.g. social convention, no, and the sun), stopping there cuts us off from what our ancestors might have called magic.
The sun rose this morning. In the dark ages and before this was a miracle, a gift from the heavens, and often the providence of the gods. We have come to understand the process of why this happens and the fact that it will happen again tomorrow and the next day and the next. It should make it no less miraculous that the process happens.
It is here that the debate often starts on what counts as a miracle. For some (on both sides of the debate), the only miracles that “count” are those that conform to a specific and fairly rigid framework. For others, every accomplishment that occurs is a miracle (often from a higher source). Somewhere between these two is a middle ground where life occurs.