That man can destroy life is just as miraculous a feat as that he can create it, for life is the miracle, the inexplicable. In the act of destruction, man sets himself above life; he transcends himself as a creature. Thus, the ultimate choice for a man, inasmuch as he is driven to transcend himself, is to create or to destroy, to love or to hate.
A Hair's Breadth In Burma there is a huge rock that balances on the edge of a cliff, kept from toppling, they say, by one hair plucked from Buddha's beard. Monks rise early to climb the steep, jagged path to view this miracle as the sun begins its day shining on the thin strand so delicately placed. I understand this pilgrimage, to witness life spared one more day. I saw a picture once in the newspaper of a car stalled at the foot of a steep embankment. A school bus had slid off the highway down the embankment and was kept from rolling, from killing the children, by the stalled car some driver had earlier cursed and kicked, stomping off through the snow, his day ruined. I cut out that picture, put it in a folder labeled "miracles," where I will put this one of the rock in Burma. And when my children complain about gathering for prayers before bed, I will take one out now and then to show them how precariously life is balanced.
The tragedy of Sarah's early life was that she was barren, but the miracle of her life was that she gave birth to Isaac, Son of Promise! when humanly speaking, the time had passed when she could become a mother.
We muse on miracles who look But lightly on a rose! Who gives it fragrance or the glint Of glory that it shows? Who hold it here between the sky And earth's rain-softened sod? The miracle of one pale rose Is proof enough of God!