God of Miracles

Sometimes it's not the big miracles that shake us—it's the small mercies. The quiet nudges. The seemingly ordinary moments that turn out to be anything but.

A few weeks ago, I bought three young Saanen does from a farm several hours south of here. The plan was simple: pick them up at the end of October. Nothing urgent. Nothing pressing. Just one more farm errand penciled on the calendar.

But then, on a Monday afternoon several weeks earlier, I found myself with an unexpected day off for a Tuesday. No explanation, just an open day like a blank page. And I felt a nudge. Not a shove. Not a sign in the sky. Just a whisper: Go now.

So I called the woman I was buying the goats from and asked if I could come the next day. She said that’d be fine, and we settled on a pickup between noon and 1:00.

I called a friend and asked if she was up for an outing. She was. It was a long drive, seven hours round trip, and when we got there, the place was empty. We waited. We went to lunch. Came back. Still no one. It would have been easy to be frustrated. Easy to call it a wasted day. But something told us to wait. We took a leisurely walk. And waited some more.

Around 4:00, a big van finally pulled in. Out spilled a gaggle of school-aged kids, laughing and loud. The woman stepped out looking overwhelmed and apologetic—she had completely forgotten. A new foster child had arrived the night before, and the whole day had been spent enrolling him in school and trying to make a frightened child feel safe in a new place. My heart softened. Life happens. People do their best.

We loaded the goats, made the long drive home, and rolled into the driveway well after dark. Tired, but grateful. That could’ve been the end of the story.

But then, yesterday. . . everything changed.

The farm I’d just been to a few days earlier caught fire. Fortunately, a neighbor arriving home late, saw the blaze, called 911, and banged on their door to wake everyone up. They all got out safely. But the devastating blaze took the barn, damaged the house, and claimed nearly everything. All their sheep. All their chickens. Most of their goats. Gone in one terrible night.

And then it hit me—those three young goats I brought home? They were in the back section of the barn. The part that didn’t survive. They weren’t milking yet, so they’d been kept in the pens with the other young does. The ones that burned.

If I hadn’t had that day off. If I hadn’t made that call. If I’d stuck to the original plan. They’d be gone too.

That Tuesday—quiet, unremarkable, and off-script—saved their lives.

I went out to the barn the next morning, still shaken, and knelt down beside those three gentle does. I ran my hands over their soft coats, choked up with tears I didn’t bother to hide, and whispered a promise to take care of them. For me. For their former family. For whatever reason they were spared.

But the story still didn’t end there.

I had already purchased two more does from that same farm a while back. Both are in milk now. Solid girls. I’d been debating selling them, but hadn’t found the right buyer. Or so I thought.

The family that lost everything. . . they were trying to rebuild. Not just buildings, but a life. A rhythm. An identity. An income. And I realized maybe I could help.

So I sent an email—no pressure, no expectation. Just a simple offer: Would you be interested in any of the girls I bought from you?

The next morning, the phone rang. Her voice cracked. “We want them. All seven.”

Seven? Not just the five I’d gotten from her, but two more high-quality does with similar bloodlines that, for some reason, I was thinking of selling. This felt right. And in that moment, goosebumps. The kind that whisper: This was never random.

Looking back now, every step feels stitched together by something greater than chance. I only meant to buy two goats. She had three. I sent a check for two, tried to leave it at that, but something nudged me to call her back and say, “I’ll take the third.”

I had a buyer lined up for the previous two I bought from her. That buyer vanished. No deposit. No reply. I was annoyed—but I let it go and had decided maybe I wanted to keep them.

Then the email I sent to the family? It went to her spam folder. She never checks her spam. But that night, something told her to look. And there it was. My message. Right on time.

I can’t explain it away. I don’t want to.

These goats—these bossy, bleating, grain-demanding, absolutely irreplaceable souls, aren’t just going to a new home. They’re going back. Back to the arms that raised them. Back to the family who needs them now more than ever, who need them more than I do.

And yes, it breaks my heart a little. Every goat I’ve ever owned has claimed a piece of my heart, and these are no different. I know their quirks, their voices, their routines. I know who screams if the hay isn't fluffed just right and who won’t eat unless I hum to her. They've been my chaos, my calm, my therapy.

But this. . . this is grace. The kind you don’t see coming. The kind that rewrites stories with second chances and open doors.

They’re not leaving just yet. The family’s still getting the new barn ready. So I’ve got a little time. A few more breakfasts met with impatient bleating. A few more nights of nose kisses and head scratches. A little more of the story, before the next chapter begins.

And when that trailer pulls in, I’ll help load them up. I’ll stroke their soft ears one last time. Whisper a promise that I’ll never forget them. And watch them ride down the road, not to an end, but a new beginning.

Because this story, full of heartbreak and healing and holy timing, it doesn’t stop here.

The story continues.

Please leave a comment below. I love hearing from you.