By Allen Johnson, Ph.D.

A MILE DOWN THE ROAD, at the edge of a cherry orchard, stands a grand old cottonwood tree. It is powerful and big, maybe four stories high and equally broad. It would take three grown men with arms outstretched to circumscribe its craggy, elephant-hide trunk. Through the years that granddaddy of a tree has gobbled up a metal fence post and a rusty line of barbed wire. The wire pokes out from its trunk like twisted cat whiskers.

Last summer my father-in-law, John Astleford, a retired Quaker missionary, stood under the shade of that old giant and thought the thoughts of a 76-year-old man. Perhaps he reflected on the events of 1962 on the plains of Guatemala, his home for 35 years.

John was 39 years old at the time. The Presbyterian Church in Guatemala City had invited him to speak to their congregation. It was a four-hour journey, but John was more than happy to serve.

An hour into the trip, John stopped at the toll booth at the entrance of the Pan American highway. Two young men approached his Chevrolet carryall.

“Please help us,” they pleaded. “Our mother is dying, and we must go to her. It is Holy Week and all the buses are overcrowded. Please, sir, would you be kind enough to give us a ride?”

Naturally, John invited the travelers to join him. They drove for over two hours. During that time John shared his faith with the two men.

Finally, John pulled off to the side of the road.

“This is your stop,” he said.

“Just a little farther,” one of the men said. “Down that dirt road.”

A few minutes later the other man spoke. “That is good,” he said.

“Right here, please.”

John stopped the carryall and turned to say goodbye to the two men.

He was about to say vaya con Dios when he turned and found himself staring into the barrel of a revolver. John watched the man squeeze down on the trigger. The first bullet entered his right cheek, shattering his teeth and exploding the roof of his mouth. The second bullet grazed the back of his neck. Quickly, the two men shoved him under the dash.

Incredibly, John remained conscious; he could hear them talking.

“Keep looking,” one of them said frantically. “He is an American. He must have a lot of money.”

Moments later the two men were gone. John managed to right himself in the seat. He pulled a hand towel from the glove compartment and pressed the cloth against the gaping hole on the side of his face.

Somehow he managed to drive twenty kilometers to the American Hospital in Guatemala City. Two nurses were coming off duty when he arrived. Quickly, they half walked, half carried the bleeding man to emergency.

John, still conscious, motioned for a pencil and paper. What would he write? “I have no mouth?” “Tell my family I love them?” No. These were the words he scrawled. “My name is John Astleford. Please tell the pastor at the Presbyterian church I will not be able to fulfill my commitment.”

Sometime later John was scheduled to see the plastic surgeon to begin reconstructive surgery on the roof of his mouth. But there was no work to be done. Inconceivably, the gap had closed on its own! The surgeon, a man of science, was beside himself. He jumped back, ran to the door, flung it open, and screamed to his nurses. “Look at this!” he exclaimed. “It is a miracle! My God, it is a miracle!”

Miracles do happen. Oh, they may not as dramatic as John’s story, but real just the same. They are all around us: a cloud, a rosebud, a wink, a hug. We need to be on the lookout for these small treasures and snatch them up for our own. For could it be that by recognizing the little miracles that abound around us, we might then witness the grand miracles: a conversion to virtue or a relationship healed or a world at peace. I believe that the real miracle is less a product of the supernatural and more a spirit of receptiveness.

Perhaps John thought about his days in Guatemala while standing under the shade of the old cottonwood tree. Maybe he identified with that grand old wooden tower. Perhaps he said to the tree, “I know you old man. You have enveloped wire and stake, as my body has enveloped fragments of bone and lead. We are living testimonies of God’s miraculous ways, you and I.”

No, John would not say that; it is too boastful and much too dramatic. He is a man unfamiliar with pride and devoid of pretense-a man as solid as a cottonwood, but as meek as the evening summer breeze.