During my time as a missionary in Natal, Brazil, I lived in an oceanfront apartment in a dangerous neighborhood where venturing out at night was highly discouraged due to the extreme risk. Just beyond my building lay a rough, borderline favela where Dona Graça lived, and each day, I would walk through this ghetto on my way to the gym. It was during these walks that I met Dona Graça, an elderly woman living alone in her small, modest home. She was an orphan, childless, and her only companion was a caramel-colored dachshund named Meio. Each time I passed by, she would greet me with a warm smile and a glass of water, and these simple acts of kindness quickly grew into a cherished friendship.
One afternoon, as I stopped by her house, I found Meio struggling to breathe, his small body wracked with pain. Meio wasn’t just a pet; he was Dona Graça’s only family, her loyal companion in a world that had given her little else. As his soft, pained whimpers filled the room, I could see the anguish in Dona Graça’s eyes as she watched her beloved dog fade away. My heart sank, but I felt confident—perhaps too confident. Recently, I had witnessed God’s power in a remarkable way when a young girl I prayed for was miraculously healed of leukemia. When I first met her, she was bald and frail, fighting for her life. But soon after, she was discharged from the hospital, fully recovered, her hair growing back as a sign of her renewed health. It felt like I was on a streak of seeing God’s hand move mightily, and after such a dramatic healing, I believed that praying for Meio wouldn’t be much of a challenge.
Yet, despite my fervent prayers, nothing changed. I pleaded with God, asking why His power, so evident before, seemed absent now. I questioned why this miracle wasn’t happening, why my prayers felt powerless as I watched Meio take his final breaths. It was a crushing realization of my own helplessness.
In the days that followed, I continued to visit Dona Graça, sharing in her sorrow and seeking understanding. I spoke with a local Catholic priest who had taken her under his care, and through our conversations, God began to reveal a deeper truth: sometimes the greatest miracle isn’t found in dramatic signs and wonders but in simply being present with someone in their pain. It wasn’t about commanding miracles at will but about embodying God’s love when there were no easy answers.
God showed me that the real miracle wasn’t in my ability to heal or change the situation but in my willingness to be there with Dona Graça, to sit with her in her grief, and offer the comfort of shared sorrow. It was a humbling revelation that the love that endures, the love that sits quietly beside the brokenhearted, is often the greatest display of God’s power. As Paul reminds us, without love, our grandest works are just noise—clanging cymbals that quickly fade away. The most powerful ministry is not found in the miraculous but in the quiet, abiding presence of God’s love shared in moments of loss.
Through this experience, I learned that while signs and wonders are incredible, the most enduring miracle is the love of God shared in the darkest moments. It’s a love that remains, that weeps with those who weep, and that reflects the heart of God more profoundly than any outward sign. In that humbling realization, I found peace, glorifying God for His wisdom in showing me that His love is the highest calling and the most lasting miracle of all—a miracle that abides in ways that touch eternity.