The Miracle We Missed: Wrestling with Faith, Choice, and the Quiet Ways of Love
My wife passed away one week ago.
She died at home, struggling to breathe, in the same hills where she was born — a place she loved and trusted more than any hospital or doctor’s office.
A year and a half earlier, she had been diagnosed with end-stage chronic kidney disease. It was likely the result of years of untreated hypertension. But when the diagnosis came, she couldn’t accept it. And wouldn’t.
She chose another road. Not one of dialysis or surgery, but one of prayer.
And she wasn’t alone. Many around her — well-meaning people — assured her that faith could heal her. Some laid hands on her, declaring the sickness gone. Others pointed to stories of healing miracles, saying hers was just around the corner. She listened to preachers online who told her to believe and not waver. And she did. She believed with all her heart.
Even as her body told a different story.
When Belief Collides with Reality
As her husband, I was caught between two worlds. I wasn’t from her culture. I’m a foreigner, Caucasian by background, married into a tribal community in Northeast India. But love transcends cultural lines, and I had made a vow to do all I could.
When doctors suggested a kidney transplant, I got tested. The odds of being a match were extremely low — we were from different races and ethnic backgrounds. But somehow, against all odds, the results came back: we matched.
It felt like a miracle.
But she didn’t see it that way. She saw medical intervention as a sign of doubt. In her mind, accepting a transplant meant she didn’t trust God to heal her. So, she refused. Again, and again. She told people she was already healed. She looked for reasons to explain her worsening symptoms without acknowledging the disease.
And eventually, her body gave out.
What Is a Miracle?
After her passing, I found myself asking the same questions over and over again.
Where was the miracle?
Was it the improbable kidney match — a medical rarity?
Was it the strength she carried within her to keep believing, even to the end?
Was it the love that stayed with her through every step, even when she made choices I couldn’t understand?
Or was the real miracle simply the fact that two lives — from opposite corners of the world — had found each other at all?
We tend to think of miracles as sudden, dramatic moments of divine power — a sickness vanishing, a heart restarting, a cloud parting with light beaming down. But more often, they come quietly. Subtly. Wrapped in science, in chance, in love, in timing.
The problem is, we sometimes miss them. Because they don’t look like we expected.
The Cost of Choice
I’ve come to believe that miracles are not always forced on us. Sometimes, they’re offered. And we are free to accept or reject them.
That’s a hard truth — especially when someone we love chooses differently than we would have. Especially when that choice leads to death. But human dignity includes the right to believe, to hope, to choose. Even when it breaks our hearts.
My wife made her choice. Not because she didn’t love life, or me. But because her understanding of faith, healing, and strength didn’t allow for hospitals, operations, or even the idea that she needed help.
And while I disagree with the road she chose, I have to respect that it was hers.
What Remains
In the quiet since her passing, I’ve found myself reflecting on the complexity of love. Love doesn’t always look like rescue. Sometimes, love means standing beside someone even when you can’t pull them back from the edge.
I tried to give her part of myself — literally. And she said no. But I still count it as love. She knew I was willing. She knew I stayed. That matters.
And maybe — just maybe — healing comes in many forms. Maybe she found her own peace, her own version of wholeness, in a place beyond breath and blood and body.
Final Thoughts
This is not a story about right or wrong decisions. It’s not about judging faith or science or traditions. It’s about the grey space where belief and biology collide. Where love meets limits. Where miracles are offered — but not always taken.If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: Not all healing happens the way we hope. But sometimes, the truest miracle is simply being present through it all. Loving fully. Giving freely. And letting go — with both grief and grace.