Seeing a Miracle Is a Choice

Have you ever had a moment in your life where something felt… mysterious?

Something small, maybe even simple, but somehow meaningful.

Almost like a quiet miracle.

Some of us notice those moments. Some of us don’t.

There’s a quote often attributed to Albert Einstein that stayed with me:

There are two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.

I want to share a story that made that idea real for me.

This goes back to 2009, when I returned from a trip to China with my mother. At that time, we didn’t have smartphones the way we do today. When you traveled, you were basically disconnected. No constant updates, no messages coming through. You were just… away.

When we got back, we saw a number of messages on the answering machine. That part was normal. What wasn’t normal was that my father, who wasn’t living with us at the time, had called twice asking me to call him back. Even more unusual, my uncle had also called. We hadn’t spoken for over seven years due to a dispute.

At that point, I knew something had happened.

I called my dad. He told me to come to the hospital.

On the way there, I had no doubt in my mind that everything would be fine. All my other grandparents had passed after periods of weakness and decline. But not this one. Pedar was different. He was the symbol of health in our family.

He was over 90 and still doing exercises I couldn’t do. I never once beat him in arm wrestling, even when he was in his nineties. Mentally, he was just as strong. He had studied engineering in Germany, back when only a select group of students were sent abroad, and later became the CEO of a company for over 30 years.

He was also one of the most trusted people I’ve ever known. During times when people didn’t trust banks or institutions, they trusted him. They would bring their valuables, their savings, and leave them with him. That says a lot about a person.

So in my mind, there was no scenario where he wouldn’t be okay.

As I got closer to the hospital room, my dad started preparing me. He explained that it started with a cold, which affected his kidneys, which then led to an embolism. They had to call an ambulance.

Even then, Pedar resisted. He insisted on walking into the hospital on his own feet. He didn’t want to lie down on the stretcher. He said that if he went in horizontally, he wouldn’t come back.

But protocol is protocol. They made him lie down.

Minutes later, he went into a coma.

When I saw him, it was clear he was not the same person. He was weaker, lighter, and completely unresponsive. He couldn’t react to anything we said.

I was also the only grandchild still living in the country, and the only grandson he had. That connection felt important in that moment.

I spoke with the doctors, trying to understand what had happened and what could have been done. But at some point, sitting beside his bed, another thought came to me.

What if he was waiting?

What if there was no return from where he was, and he was just waiting for me to come back… to say goodbye?

After spending about an hour with him, I had to leave. Before I left, I leaned in, kissed his forehead, and whispered to him:

“Pedar, if you were waiting for me, I’m here. I’m saying my goodbyes. Feel free to go. You’ve already given us everything. You’ve planted your thoughts, your values, your presence in our lives. There’s nothing more you need to do here.”

I left the hospital and went home.

Shortly after, my dad called. He told me to come back to Pedar’s house.

He had passed away.

So I’ve asked myself this question many times.

Was he waiting for me?

Waiting those six days while I was away?

Waiting just long enough for me to come back and say goodbye?

Or was it simply a coincidence?

You can look at it either way.

But I choose to see it as something more. A small, quiet miracle. A moment where timing, connection, and meaning came together in a way that felt deeper than chance.

And that’s really the point of this story.

It’s not about loss. It’s not about saying goodbye.

It’s about how we choose to interpret the moments we’re given.

Life gives us situations that can feel random, or they can feel meaningful.

And sometimes, the difference is just the lens we choose to look through.

If we choose to see them as meaningful, they can bring gratitude.

They can bring a sense of wonder.

They can add depth and color to our lives.

So maybe the real question is not whether miracles exist.

Maybe the question is… do we choose to see them?

For similar stories or to read this in my sister's writing, take a look at "Who Flapped Their Wings?: A Collection of Awe-Inspiring Stories" by Dorna Djenab.