The Bible and the miracle

The Old Bible and the Miracle

Martha Johnson had lived a long, quiet life. At eighty-two, her world had grown small—just her modest home at the edge of town, the neighbor’s dog who barked each morning, and the creak of her rocking chair on the worn wooden floor. Yet Martha carried with her something more precious than gold: an unshakable faith in God.

Her most treasured possession was not jewelry, nor family heirlooms, nor even the faded quilt that had warmed three generations. It was her Bible. Its leather cover had grown soft with age, the pages thin from decades of turning. Certain verses were underlined in blue ink, and beside them, Martha had scribbled notes in careful, slanted handwriting.

Each morning, she set the kettle on the stove, poured herself a cup of tea, and settled by the window where the sunlight spilled across her table. She would open her Bible, lift her glasses to her nose, and read the words that had guided her through every season of life—through laughter and loss, through war and widowhood, through plenty and want.

Her neighbors often wondered how she managed. Martha’s pension barely covered the bills, and the cupboards in her kitchen were usually thin. Still, she never complained. She never asked for help. When anyone expressed concern, she’d smile and say softly, “God will provide. He always has.”

⸻

Winter’s Hardship

One particularly harsh winter, Martha found herself struggling more than usual. The cold seeped into the corners of her house, and her joints ached worse than they ever had before. The snow outside piled high, making it difficult for her to get to the little store down the road.

By the middle of January, her pantry shelves were nearly bare. A few dried beans, some stale bread, and a half-empty jar of honey were all she had left. Martha prayed over each meal, thanking God even for the little she had.

On one of those bitter nights, as the wind howled outside and rattled her windows, the power went out. Darkness pressed in on the house. Martha lit a candle and wrapped herself tightly in her quilt. She hadn’t eaten much that day, and her stomach ached with hunger.

She picked up her Bible and turned to the Gospel of Matthew. Her eyes fell on the words:

“Therefore I tell you, do not be anxious about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink… Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them.”

Martha closed her eyes and prayed aloud, her voice steady but soft.

“Lord, You fed the five thousand with five loaves and two fish. You know what I need before I even ask. Please, let Your will be done. I trust You.”

She drifted into sleep that night with her Bible resting on her chest and the flicker of candlelight casting long shadows across the room.

⸻

The Knock at the Door

At dawn, Martha awoke to a sound she rarely heard—a firm knock at her door. She blinked in confusion, pulling her quilt tighter around her shoulders as she shuffled to the entryway.

When she opened the door, her breath caught in her throat.

On her porch sat three large bags filled with groceries. Fresh bread still warm from the bakery, milk, apples, potatoes, carrots, and even a box of her favorite tea. There was enough food to last her for weeks.

Her eyes widened as she bent down and saw a small note tucked into the bag. The handwriting was simple, almost hurried:

“God put you on my heart last night. Be blessed.”

Martha’s hands trembled as tears filled her eyes. She whispered, “Thank You, Lord. You’ve never left me, not once.”

She looked up and down the street, but no one was there. No car idled nearby. No footsteps marked the fresh snow. Whoever had delivered the gift had slipped away quietly, without wanting recognition.

⸻

A Miracle Shared

The story spread quickly. When Martha told her neighbors what had happened, some smiled and nodded knowingly, while others shook their heads, insisting it must have been coincidence, or the kindness of some anonymous charity.

But Martha believed otherwise.

She knew in her heart it was no accident that the food had arrived just after her prayer. It was no coincidence that the note carried the very message she had whispered to God in the quiet of her candlelit room.

For Martha, it was a miracle.

In the weeks that followed, her strength returned. She sat by her window each morning, Bible open, and read with renewed joy. Her faith, which had always been her anchor, now felt like wings carrying her higher than ever before.

And though some doubted, many began to see Martha differently. Neighbors started visiting more often, bringing small gifts of bread or soup. Children waved at her from the sidewalk. One woman even asked Martha to pray for her sick husband, believing that perhaps her faith carried a special strength.

Martha never claimed to be anything special. She would smile gently and say, “I just believe God keeps His promises.”

⸻

The Lesson

Martha Johnson passed away peacefully a few years later, her Bible still resting on the table beside her. When neighbors came to her house, they found the pages worn and underlined, filled with notes of faith and gratitude.

Her story lived on—not because she had lived a wealthy life or achieved grand accomplishments, but because she had lived faithfully.

She had shown that miracles do not always come with thunder and lightning. Sometimes, they arrive quietly, with a knock at the door and a bag of groceries left in the snow.