The Everyday Miracle

The word miracle is often reserved for things that defy logic or natural law—burning bushes, parting seas, or sudden, divine healings. But look closer. The definition of a miracle is “a highly improbable or extraordinary event, development, or accomplishment that brings very welcome consequences.”

By that measure, what is more miraculous than this: a room full of alcoholics and addicts—people who once couldn’t go an hour without using—now showing up sober, holding space for each other, listening without interrupting, and offering support instead of shame?

That’s not just unlikely. That’s extraordinary.

Because addiction is a disease that isolates. It cuts off the head from the heart, the person from the people, and the soul from the self. It breeds silence, secrecy, and self-destruction. Left untreated, it devours everything.

And yet… here we are.

A circle of chairs. A few battered coffee cups. Some half-folded meeting schedules. And people—raw, real, trembling, and trying—showing up anyway. Sharing the ugliest parts of their story not to shock or impress, but to heal. To stay sober. To help someone else find the strength to make it one more day.

No one levitates. No halos appear. But something shifts in the room. Eyes that were once hollow now hold light. Hands that once stole or struck now open to help. Laughter rings out where shame once sat heavy.

This is not magic. And it might not be divine intervention. But it is sacred.

It’s the sacredness of people doing what should be impossible: getting better together. Holding each other accountable and holding each other up. Telling the truth even when it hurts. Saying, “Me too,” instead of, “What’s wrong with you?”

Recovery is a miracle not because it happens all at once—but because it happens at all.

And maybe the most beautiful part is this: You don’t have to believe in a Higher Power to believe in each other. You don’t need a burning bush when someone hands you a phone list and says, Call me if it gets bad. You don’t need to walk on water when you’ve learned to sit still through a craving.

If you’re looking for a miracle, don’t look up.

Look across the table.