The Day I Witnessed a Miracle
Christmas morning 2025. My girlfriend’s family took me to church in Nazareth, Belgium. Big brick building, cold sky, graves out front.
I’ve been going back to faith the last few years, even if my favorite podcasts don’t. Prayer still does something I can’t map. I train hard for sports; the calmer head helps there too.
I don’t need every piece proven. I believe, mostly as a Christian. There’s a line from Rumi: “Live life as if everything is rigged in your favor.” I try to live my life instead of fighting it.
Inside it was warm and crowded. The normal Christmas service. They had kids on stage acting out Jesus being born, with a real baby. Cute. Almost too cute.
Then everything shifted. Chairs. People talking fast. You felt it in the room: wrong.
My girlfriend’s mother is an osteopath. She ran over before I’d really seen him. A man on the ground. The service tried to keep going. It couldn’t. Ambulances. The priest stayed calm, big red beard, like Santa in a robe. Tall.
On the way out he caught my eye and tapped his chest. It’s okay. He’s being looked after.
We waited outside. Of course this was the Sunday I came with everyone. Her grandfather said maybe next time he’d stay home.
When she came out, the news sounded final. She did CPR. From what she could tell, he hadn’t made it.
We drove home in silence.
Next morning: a message. A news piece. His wife.
I also found the local article about it: HLN article (Dutch)
English translation:
- Caption under the photo: “Ria Wouters (80) and Jean-Pierre Van den Nieuwenhuysen (85).”
- Headline: “Churchgoers save the life of Jean-Pierre (85), who suffered a heart attack during the Christmas celebration: ‘He gladly accepts those five broken ribs.’”
- Date/time: “26 December 2025, 17:55.”
He was alive. Okay. She thanked the church. Said alone at home she could not have saved him. She wrote about believing in people showing up. I read it and cried.
I thought Christmas had given us a death. It gave us a miracle. I still don’t have words that fit.
A few months later I was in church in Uruguay. They read the story of Lazarus, dead then alive.
Coincidence? I don’t know.
I know I keep going. That morning in Nazareth is part of why.