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Last night, I watched a film that gently broke something open inside me. It had been years — maybe decades — since a movie moved me to tears. But Lost on a Mountain in Maine did. A true story of a 12-year-old boy who gets lost in the vast, unforgiving forest of Maine after being separated from his family while camping. Alone, barefoot, starving, and yet — incredibly — he survives.

What struck me wasn’t just the boy’s courage, but something deeper: the invisible thread that held him through those long, terrifying days. He walked without knowing where he was going. He followed the streams, whispered prayers into the silence, and somehow — somehow — found his way back. To me, this is the essence of faith.

I cried not only because he was saved, but because I recognized myself in that boy. Not literally lost in the wilderness, but lost in other ways — emotionally, spiritually, sometimes even in the fog of exile. How many times have I walked blindly, not knowing if there was anyone out there still searching for me?

Yet, I believe in God. I believe in miracles. And I believe this film reminded me — in the gentlest way — that we are never truly alone. Even in the silence of the woods. Even when our cries echo into what seems like nothingness.

There was something sacred in that boy’s struggle — and something holy in the joy of his return. It felt like watching a prayer come to life.

Sometimes, miracles don’t come as grand events. Sometimes they arrive in the form of a barefoot boy with bug bites and cracked lips, stumbling out of the forest — alive.

And sometimes, we cry not because we’re sad, but because we remember what it feels like to be found.

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“God walks with those who walk on, even when the path disappears beneath their feet.”