Miracles get imagined as lightning. In practice the things that look miraculous from outside are compounding viewed from a distance — the woman who learned to read at forty-three, the marriage repaired across two years of unremarkable conversations.
From the inside none of it felt miraculous. It felt like Tuesday, then another Tuesday.
That is better news than the lightning version, because Tuesdays are available to you and lightning isn't. Whatever your miraculous thing is, find the Tuesday-sized piece of it. That piece is the only part anyone has ever actually done.