Miracles still happen. Often quietly, almost hidden, waiting for us to notice. All it takes is a little faith.
This is the story of one such moment in my life.
It was the morning of 9th September 2014. I boarded a train to work, slipped my wallet into my bag, and pulled out my phone to continue an online conversation. The compartment was nearly empty, a rare gift for a Mumbai local. As we reached Andheri, I picked up my bag and stepped out. Ticket collectors were stationed on the platform and then again on the bridge, almost twenty of them. Strangely, none of them asked me for my ticket. At the time, I thought nothing of it. My pass was valid anyway.
But the moment came soon after. At the metro entrance, I reached into my bag for my MetroCard and froze. The zipper was open. My wallet was gone. Along with it: my debit card, license, train pass, gift cards, and some cash. It wasn’t just the money. It was the frustration, the helplessness, the sense of being violated. A stream of anger ran through me: How can someone cause such loss to another without a thought?
The next few days blurred into filing complaints and carrying documents just to prove my identity. Life continued, but the irritation lingered. I replayed the scene over and over: When did it happen? How didn’t I notice? At times, I even wished to catch the thief and confront him.
But during my morning prayers, something shifted. A thought interrupted my anger: What if he was in need? What if desperation led him there? It didn’t justify the act, but it softened my response. I began to pray for him, three Hail Marys a day. A small offering, a fragile hope that perhaps he might return what was lost. It seemed far-fetched, but faith often does.
Weeks passed. I prayed some days, forgot on others. Then, on 9th October, exactly a month later, I woke up ready to give up on the thought entirely. It’s been too long. Even the trains must have been cleaned by now, I told myself. Still, I prayed. My faith that day was no bigger than a mustard seed.
That evening, a call came. A young woman’s voice asked, “Are you Ashford?” She explained that she and her friend had found my cards in the train. I was stunned. On the very day I almost stopped believing, something had been returned.
We met at Mahalaxmi station the next day. They handed me my debit card and a few others, none of which were of financial use, since I had already cancelled them, but still a sign. I thought that was the end. But God wasn’t finished. Days later, a gentleman showed up at my home. His wife had found my driving license at Churchgate station, and since there was no contact number, he had come in person to return it.
I remember standing there, holding my license, overwhelmed by how unreal it all felt. Yet it was real. A wallet stolen in the chaos of a Mumbai train, cards scattered and somehow preserved, strangers moved to return them, piece by piece.
And here was the deeper miracle: before anything was restored externally, something had shifted internally. God’s grace had first worked on me, changing my anger into prayer, bitterness into intercession, vengeance into forgiveness. That was the true miracle. The return of my cards was only a sign of it.
Every day we wake up is a miracle. Every breath, every act of kindness, every stirring of grace within us. Look closely at your own life, and you will see them too. For God’s grace is never absent. And with even the smallest seed of faith, miracles become visible.