Posted on October 13, 2025
by Carol Albro

What exactly is a miracle? Is it the parting of a sea, the healing of the sick, or the impossible made visible? Or is it something quieter, something deeply personal, like a moment of hope that appears when you need it most? Maybe it’s both.

Miracles can look dramatic or ordinary, but their essence is the same, they shift something inside us. They change what we believe is possible. And sometimes, the most extraordinary ones arrive disguised as simple moments of grace.

Some miracles last a moment. Others can last a lifetime if you choose to use them that way. They become touchstones, guiding you back to faith when doubt creeps in, reminding you what it feels like to believe before you can see.

If you believe in manifestation, or the saying “what you think about, you bring about”, then you probably know that creation takes three things: The what, the idea or vision you hold in your mind. The how, faith in the belief that it can happen. And most importantly, the why, the emotions that power the need for this gift.

But the when and where? Those are not up to us. They belong to something higher, Spirit, God, the Universe, or whatever name you give to the creative intelligence that arranges timing far better than we ever could. I learned all of this through one miracle, one that began with a child’s curiosity, a little competition with my mother, and an impossible prayer for snow.

The Prayer Contest

My mother and I were in what she called a “pray-off.” She had grown tired of my endless questions after church, If God is perfect, why did He flood the Earth? Why would He sacrifice His son? Isn’t He supposed to be kind?

So, in her loving wisdom, she challenged me. “Pick something to pray for,” she said. “I’ll do the same. We’ll see whose prayer gets answered first.”

Without hesitation, I chose snow.

We lived in San Antonio, Texas, where it doesn’t snow. That was precisely why I chose it. If God could do anything, I wanted to see if He really would.

Every night, I knelt by my bed, hands pressed together and closed my eyes tight. I tried to picture what snow looked like,though I had never seen it. I imagined the air turning cold and quiet, the ground soft and white, and tiny flakes landing on my eyelashes like glitter.

Sometimes I’d pretend I could smell it, like clean air mixed with cotton. I’d whisper, “Please, God, just a little snow,” and then wait in the silence for a sign.

What I didn’t realize then was that I wasn’t just praying, I was believing. Later, I understood that a child has a kind of blind faith, untainted by fear or experience. You haven’t seen all the worries of the world yet to color your vision of what could be. In my seven-year-old way, I was already learning how to feel something before it ever happened.

The Day It Snowed

Months later, my father’s job relocated us to Houston. I never stopped talking to God. And then, one morning in January 1973, I woke to a strange, perfect stillness. I ran to the window. Snow.

It barely covered the ground, but it completely covered my heart. The world looked softer, quieter, like someone had sprinkled magic on everything. For a long moment, I just stared, afraid that if I blinked, it might disappear. Then the excitement hit me all at once.

I felt something I couldn’t name then, something bigger than happiness. Like a spark inside me had turned into a warm light that filled my whole chest. I didn’t know what I’d won, exactly, only that I had. It felt like the world had just said, Yes, Carol, I hear you.

I dashed down the stairs, my socks sliding on the wood, shouting, “Mom! My prayer came true!” She smiled, equal parts disbelief and delight, and said, “You’re right, Carol. You did it. Now can you teach me?”

That day, January 11, 1973, became one of the highest recorded snowfalls in Houston’s history. And it became my first miracle.

The Hidden Miracle

What I didn’t know then was that my mother’s prayer had been unfolding alongside mine. While I prayed for snow, she prayed for a cure to my congenital bladder defect, a condition that had left me with no muscle control.

Soon after the snow, a Houston urologist, willing to take on complex pediatric cases, agreed to treat me using experimental procedures. My case was later presented at the AMA Urology Conference in San Francisco.

Not long after that, my father was transferred again, to Colorado Springs, Colorado. It snowed there often, and for the first time in my life, no one knew me as “the kid with the problem.” My mother’s prayer had been answered too, through the same sequence of divine timing that fulfilled mine.

One miracle had unlocked another. And that single event became a thread I could follow for the rest of my life—reminding me what faith feels like.

Prayer, Meditation, and the Quiet Connection

As a child, I thought of what I did each night as “praying.” Now I understand that prayer was my way of finding quiet and focus, of reaching for something greater than myself. Later in life, I would discover that others find that same stillness through meditation, reflection, or simply sitting in silence.

Whether it’s prayer, meditation, music, nature, or art, it doesn’t really matter what form it takes. What matters is that moment when your thoughts soften, your breath deepens, and you feel connected to something beyond the noise of everyday life. That’s where miracles begin. That’s where your faith begins. 

The Return of the Lesson

Years later, through seasons of uncertainty and moments when life didn’t make sense, I would remember that first miracle. It wasn’t the snow itself that changed me, it was the feeling I had before it arrived.

That feeling of trust, calm, joy, connection, it became my emotional compass. It reminded me that the power to create or heal wasn’t outside of me; it was something I could reignite anytime I chose. The snow had shown me what belief feels like. And once you’ve felt that, you can return to it, again and again.

But there was another layer I saw much later. As an adult, I learned that my mother’s prayer had been answered, too. Both of our prayers had come true in ways that only divine timing could arrange. The healing, the move to Colorado, the endless snow, it was all part of the same miracle, just seen through two hearts asking for different things.

Realizing that helped me understand that miracles don’t just happen to us, they happen through us, linking our stories together in ways we can’t always see. My childhood snowstorm and my mother’s answered prayer were part of one larger tapestry, proof that Spirit was weaving our intentions and emotions into something whole. Likely, they were intertwined with miracles requested by others. That tapestry is the reason friends and acquaintances become a part of your life, you might have a part to play in their miracle. 

Today, I still harness those same feelings for inspiration and strength. When I’m reaching for the next dream, facing a challenge, or helping someone else rediscover their own belief, I go back to that moment. I remember the peace of knowing something good was on its way, the warmth of divine partnership, and the joy of witnessing love at work through prayer and faith.

That feeling, faith made real, has become both my foundation and my fuel. It’s the leverage I use to create the next miracle in my life, and to remind others that their own miracles are already unfolding.

The first miracle wasn’t meant to convince me, it was meant to teach me. To show me that faith isn’t something we outgrow, it’s something we practice. Because when we remember the feeling, and choose to live from it, the miracles keep coming.

How to Feel What Hasn’t Happened Yet

If you’ve never experienced what you’re trying to manifest, start with emotion. Recall a time when you felt awe, gratitude, peace, or relief. Those are the same frequencies as miracles; they’re the emotional code the universe understands.

Even if you’ve never known abundance, you can remember the joy of giving. If you’ve never known love, you can recall the warmth of friendship. If you’ve never known success, you can feel the pride of effort.

Those emotions become the bridge between your current reality and your desired one. They’re the language of faith made real.

A Lifetime of Snow

From San Antonio to Houston to Colorado. From a child’s prayer to an adult’s life creation, I’ve learned that miracles don’t come from asking. They come from aligning.

When your mind quiets, your heart opens, and your soul believes, the universe listens. Sometimes it answers with snow. Sometimes it answers with healing. And sometimes, it answers with a lifelong reminder that the first miracle was never meant to fade, it was meant to last.

For more information about me and my work, or to explore how mindset and belief can help you create your own miracles, visit my website, Lighthouse Mindset Studio. Alos, coming soon, my latest book, Cloudy with a Chance of Clarity, which offers practical tools to calm your thoughts, shift your perspective, and harness the power of your own miraculous mind.