The universe came from nothing. Our existence is absurd, and cannot be answered. We exist presumably alone amongst what we are told is unending, infinite space with an mysterious origin that people endeavor to solve. We don't know whether this life is all we get, or whether our spirits persist. We don't know what extent to which our spirits to persist in the event that they don't perish with us.
We are the miracle. We're each the result of a Powerball-level chance of being the sperm that fertilized the ovum, and from there, we're constantly in unremitting danger of ceasing to exist.
Every day, individuals out there face unfathomably bad odds in any number of regards, and they beat them. Malala Yousafzai gets shot in the head and survives. Fred Hampton brokers a peace agreement between the warring gangs of Chicago in a most violent era. Vasily Aleksandrovich Arkhipov refuses to launch the missile that would've ended the world against direct orders to do so, and he is only in the position to do so because he is on the sole submarine that requires 4 separate people to authorize that launch, and still he is the ONLY one who refuses.
Blair Walsh misses a chip shot. Michigan State takes a bobbled routine punt in for a touchdown on the last play of the game. Chris Davis returns a missed field goal 108 yards to win the Iron Bowl. Marshawn Lynch catalyzes a seismic event to destroy the defending world champions.
Miracles don't just exist - they are our catalyst. The reason we can wake up in the morning, pursue our happiness, love our loved ones, watch our favorite teams engage in sport, and argue on a message board about it during and after. The trick is simply trying to find them, because I can guarantee you that they're there. They are always there.