There is a story I have shared many times in churches and through videos, but until now, it has never been fully written down. Today feels like the right time. Amidst my journey of faith and my exploration into areas where Christian beliefs sometimes miss the mark, it has become important to document the miracles I have personally witnessed, along with my family and others.
Let me begin by making one important point clear: years after the event, my faith faltered, and I began to doubt the significance of the miracle I had experienced. Yet, another miracle occurred through the faith of someone else, reaffirming the truth I had known from childhood. I know God is real, and I have no greater evidence to offer than these two miraculous events.
The First Miracle
When I was four years old, I was visiting my grandparents’ home with my mother and sister. They had a beautiful A-frame house surrounded by tall pines on a farm near the mountains in Washington State. My grandmother and mother were busy in the kitchen preparing food, and on this particular day, I was especially curious, exploring every cabinet and drawer.
Repeatedly, I was reminded not to disturb things, yet once again I found myself opening cupboards and pulling items out. Eventually, my mother’s patience wore thin. Frustrated, she directed me firmly to stand with my nose in the corner between the wall and the front door for a timeout.
Although I didn’t intend to be rebellious, my mother believed I was acting out deliberately, claiming I had never misbehaved so badly. Obediently, I took my place in the corner. As I stood there, something unusual caught my attention. Beneath the tightly sealed front door, I could see two frog legs sticking out. Curious, I mentioned this discovery to my mother, but since I was supposed to remain quiet, she increased my timeout.
After waiting a few more minutes, my curiosity overcame me again. Each attempt to inform her only increased her frustration and lengthened my timeout. After more than half an hour, determined to be heard, I turned around and emphatically insisted I wasn’t lying and that a frog was indeed trapped beneath the door. As my mother approached to correct me once more, she finally saw the frog’s legs for herself. Immediately remorseful, she realized her mistake in doubting me.
When she opened the door, we saw the frog had been caught while attempting to jump outside, crushed by the tightly sealed door. It was a disturbing sight. The pressure had split open the frog’s stomach, revealing vividly colored internal organs, and dislodged one eye, leaving it dangling by the optic nerve.
My mother quickly asked my grandmother to bring a paper towel from the kitchen to dispose of the frog in the toilet. Immediately, I felt a deep protest within me. I pleaded with my mother, insisting we shouldn’t discard the frog but instead pray to Jesus. My mother, assuming I didn’t grasp the permanence of death, gently tried to explain. However, I already understood death clearly and helped her describe it.
Attempting another approach, she explained that Jesus had more important things to handle than frogs. Yet I reminded her of the Bible lesson we’d recently learned about God’s care even for sparrows and his awareness of every hair on our heads. Surely, I argued, if God cared about birds, he cared about frogs too.
Despite my mother’s attempts to explain the realities of prayer, I persisted. I recalled Jesus’ teaching about faith the size of a mustard seed, capable of moving mountains. My childlike understanding of faith left her and my grandmother uncertain how to respond. Eventually, they agreed to join me in prayer.
We moved outside onto the wooden deck, where there was more room to kneel together. I vividly remember the cool June air and the green light filtering through the fiberglass awnings. I knelt nearest the frog, my mother and grandmother behind me. When my mother suggested I lead the prayer, I closed my eyes and spoke simply: “Dear Jesus, please help this little frog because he didn’t mean to get smashed. Thank you, Amen.”
Before I even opened my eyes, my mother gasped audibly. To her astonishment, the frog was alive—completely restored, breathing, and healthy. She had kept her eyes open, expecting nothing, yet had witnessed an undeniable miracle.
My mother was visibly shaken, quickly pointing out the moist spot where the frog’s crushed body had been moments before, saying, “I know I’m not crazy, I know what was happening a moment ago”. She looked to the wet spot where the internal organs of the frog had just been making a mark bigger than it’s body as proof that something miraculous had indeed just occurred.
My grandmother stood, clearly burdened by the experience, apologizing and declaring she could never speak of this event again.
Now, I realize there may be doubts or explanations one might offer to rationalize what happened. Allow me to address them clearly.
Firstly, my mother had no opportunity to replace the frog discreetly. Although my eyes were closed during the prayer, my mother’s reaction was immediate and genuine. She pointed to a wet spot on the threshold—where the frog’s crushed body had been moments earlier—as evidence that she had just witnessed something truly impossible.
After her initial reaction, my mother fell silent, visibly shaken. My grandmother stood up abruptly, apologizing and firmly stating that she would never speak about what had happened to anyone. To my knowledge, she remained true to her word, never discussing it again.
Meanwhile, I picked up the now-healthy frog and began playing with it. Eventually, my mother broke her silence, speaking with deep seriousness. She told me she felt certain this miracle was significant beyond just this moment. She believed it might serve as an anchor for my faith in a future time of great difficulty, a moment to remind me that God was undeniably real. She was convinced that for some reason I personally would need this experience to remain in the faith.
Her seriousness and concern made me uneasy. She carefully emphasized that we shouldn’t expect miracles like this to happen routinely; it was unique and purposeful. She asked if I understood that I couldn’t simply pray for things to return to life whenever I wanted. I did understand, but the realization also unsettled me. I hoped earnestly that no situation would arise requiring another miracle of this magnitude. She reassured me there was still much to learn about God, and if He acted again, it would be only because it was necessary.
Later that day, when my stepfather arrived, my mother and I eagerly shared our story. He immediately dismissed it, openly skeptical. When he asked my grandmother for confirmation, she refused to comment, insisting, “I don’t want to talk about it. Ask them.”
On our drive home, my stepfather and mother argued lightly over what had occurred. He insisted we must be imagining things, repeatedly expressing disbelief in God’s willingness or ability to intervene so directly. He bluntly called us liars, effectively ending the conversation.
Over the years, I’ve encountered others who suggested we must have misinterpreted the frog’s injuries, that perhaps it wasn’t as severely harmed as we remembered. But I cannot accept this explanation. The frog’s stomach was clearly split open, vividly revealing its multicolored internal organs, and one eye hung out by the optic nerve. It was unquestionably dead. It had been trapped beneath the door for nearly an hour, and even longer since we’d entered the house earlier that day.
There remains no doubt in my mind about this miracle. My mother’s genuine astonishment, the physical evidence left behind, and my detailed memories confirm the reality of what we experienced. Afterward, I played with the frog for at least half an hour before my mother insisted I release it. The frog was perfectly healthy, lively, and unharmed.
Just a few years ago my mother was recounting the story of the frog miracle, and she genuinely thanked me for continuing to accept that it really happened. She told me that it would be such a hard thing to carry on her own if for some reason she was the only one left knowing it truly happened.
Sharing this story hasn’t been easy. I’ve never heard of another miracle quite like it, despite hearing many other inspiring accounts. Some people have resisted hearing this story or openly doubted its truthfulness, even to the point of being labeled a liar by a church teacher during camp discussions.
Indeed, it might seem unbelievable. After all, who am I to witness such an extraordinary act of God? But who is anyone, really? It is not about us, but about God. This miracle was undoubtedly a moment when He chose to reveal His power unmistakably, and in response to the calling on the promises that Jesus taught us.
Alone, this story may sound extraordinary—an anomaly in our ordinary world. Yet, for those who’ve experienced God’s power themselves, my story resonates deeply. For those who believed this first miracle, it set the stage for the next.
The Second Miracle
When I was 14 years old, I attended a Seventh-Day Adventist boarding school in Oregon. It was my freshman year, and finances were tight; my mother had just enough money to send me to school, but not much left for extra activities.
That winter, our school planned a ski trip to Mount Hood Meadows, a vast ski resort boasting nearly three and a half square miles (8.7 km2) of slopes. To participate, I had to borrow gear from various classmates. Among these borrowed items was a pair of yellow Oakley sunglasses since there were no extra goggles available at the dorm.
Early in the day, after a minor crash on the mountain, I realized I had lost the detachable nose piece from these sunglasses. Instantly, dread set in. Not only were the glasses now painfully uncomfortable, but the financial burden of replacing this $150 item—at a time when the minimum wage was less than five dollars an hour—felt overwhelming. Moreover, I had borrowed these sunglasses from a classmate known for his tough demeanor, making the situation even more distressing.
Feeling defeated, I boarded a ski lift with my friend Faye Jurgensen and told her I wanted to return to the lodge. But Faye, a strong believer in miracles, quickly rejected my hopelessness. She reminded me about the miraculous frog incident from my childhood, which I had previously shared with her, and suggested that we could pray for the nose piece just the same.
In that moment I was just like my mother when I had wanted to pray for the frog. I tried to convince Faye that God had moved for us regarding the frog because I needed to believe and had proper faith, but that now that I knew God was real that he wasn’t going to be so quick.
Faye passionately challenged me about my dwindling faith, expressing disappointment that my belief had faded despite experiencing God’s power firsthand. She reasoned with me that great faith as a child meant nothing if it was not ready to grow beyond that experience into new outcomes where God could once again move in a big way. I knew she was right.
Together, we decided to gather a small group of classmates at the top of the ski lift. Once we had five or six others, we all knelt in the snow beside the trail, and one of the girls eagerly recounted my frog story to the group with enthusiasm (though with more than a few inaccuracies since she hadn’t witnessed it herself). When she was done, we all joined in prayer for help, and called on Gods promises as well as recant what he had done for me in the past.
Throughout the day, I thought little of our prayer, other than noticing the discomfort caused by the missing nose piece. Then, late in the afternoon, David—one of our classmates and the roommate of the sunglasses’ owner—called me over. In his hand was the missing nose piece.
Stunned with joy and jumping up and down, I excitedly began recounting how we had prayed, but David insisted on sharing his experience first. Earlier that afternoon, he had separated from his group, skiing alone from the mountain’s peak. At one moment, he felt an unexpected serenity, prompting him to pause and soak in the breathtaking view. He said he just couldn’t get over the way he felt at that moment, and actually stood there for so long that he shook his head, as if to shake out his state of mind, and asked himself out loud, “what am I doing?”
Then as he got ready to proceed down the mountain, he looked down and noticed the small yellow piece in the snow. Recognizing it immediately as the missing piece from his roommate’s sunglasses—something no one else would have known—.
Could this event be dismissed as mere coincidence? Perhaps, if considered in isolation. But placed alongside my childhood miracle, it becomes clear that God was at work. Faye’s unwavering faith had rekindled my own, and our prayers were undeniably answered.
This second miracle confirmed to me that our experiences of God’s intervention are purposeful and deeply personal when we are ready to receive them. It demonstrated that God remains attentive and compassionate toward even our smallest concerns.
Indeed, God’s love calls us toward something greater than we can experience in this lifetime. Though we are weak and broken, unable to redeem ourselves by any effort or good deed, the God who helped me on that mountain—and in many other moments—is powerful and faithful.
I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.
