06/02/2026
Acts 9:32-43 is one of those passages that quietly sneaks up on you. There are no flashing lights. No Damascus Road. No voice from Heaven. No dramatic basket escape. Instead, Peter simply goes from town to town doing what God has called him to do, and in the middle of ordinary ministry, extraordinary things happen.
First he arrives in Lydda and finds a man named Aeneas who has been paralyzed and bedridden for eight years. Eight years. Long enough for people to stop expecting anything to change. Long enough for neighbors to walk by and think, "That's just Aeneas." Long enough for everyone, including Aeneas himself, to settle into a new normal. Then Peter says, "Aeneas, Jesus Christ heals you; rise and make your bed" (Acts 9:34, ESV). And immediately he gets up.
The part that always stands out is that Peter doesn't say, "Look what I can do." He doesn't launch a fundraising campaign. He doesn't start handing out business cards that say Apostle Peter, Miracle Specialist. He points directly to Jesus. Peter understood something that can be easy to forget. The power was never in Peter. Peter was just the delivery guy. Nobody thanks the mail carrier for writing the birthday card. They just brought it to the door.
Then the scene shifts to Joppa where a woman named Tabitha, also called Dorcas, becomes sick and dies. Tabitha is the Aramaic form of her name and Dorcas is the Greek form. Both names mean "gazelle." In biblical times that was a compliment. Gazelles were known for their grace, beauty, and elegance. Nobody was naming their daughter after a
farm animal that runs into a fence because it got distracted by a butterfly. A gazelle was something admired.
Tabitha was beloved because she was always helping people. Scripture specifically mentions her acts of kindness and charity. When Peter arrives, the widows gather around him holding up the tunics and garments she had made for them. It is one of the most touching scenes in Acts because nobody is talking about her accomplishments, status, income, or social standing. They are holding evidence of her love. They are essentially saying, "Look what she did for us. Look how much she cared."
That is a question worth asking. If people gathered after our lives were over, what stories would they tell? Not what titles did we have. Not how many followers did we collect. Not how impressive was the résumé. What evidence of love would they be holding in their hands?
Peter sends everyone out of the room, kneels down, and prays. Then he says, "Tabitha, arise" (Acts 9:40, ESV). She opens her eyes, sits up, and Peter helps her to her feet. News spreads throughout Joppa and many people believe in the Lord.
Notice something interesting. In both stories, the miracle itself was never the final goal. The healing was not the point. The resurrection was not the point. The point was always that people would see Jesus. God was not running a supernatural talent show. Every miracle was a giant arrow pointing toward Christ.
That can be frustrating because most of us want God to work in spectacular ways. We want lightning bolts, dramatic signs, and unmistakable miracles. Meanwhile God often works through ordinary faithfulness. Peter just kept showing up. He kept traveling. He kept serving. He kept praying. And somewhere along the road, Jesus kept changing lives.
Sometimes faith feels less like standing on a stage and more like being Tabitha with a sewing needle. One stitch at a time. One act of kindness at a time. One prayer at a time. One ordinary day at a time. Yet God has a remarkable habit of taking those small acts of faithfulness and using them in ways far bigger than we can see.
The people of Joppa remembered Tabitha because she loved well. The people of Lydda remembered Aeneas because Jesus changed his life. The people remembered Peter because he pointed them toward Christ. And thousands of years later, the same challenge remains for us.
When the story of our lives is told, will people remember us for ourselves, or will they remember that somehow, through all our imperfections and mistakes and occasional ability to make simple things unnecessarily complicated, we pointed them toward Jesus?
Because in the end, that is the miracle that matters most.
