Some novels merely entertain, and then some novels reach inward and shift the very rhythm of how we breathe. Bigger by Anthony Gifford belongs to the latter. It is a work of stillness and spark, a meditation on renewal told through the eyes of an aging man who rediscovers the pulse of purpose when he least expects it.

At eighty-two, Anthony is a man caught between memory and meaning. His words once moved congregations, his writings once stirred reflection, yet now he feels invisible, present but unlit. The world seems to have moved on, and his faith, that lifelong companion, has thinned to a whisper. Then one evening, under the indifferent glow of a Kingston sky, something falls, a small red stone, pulsing faintly, warm to the touch. It does not announce itself as divine; it simply is. But from that quiet arrival, everything changes.

The next morning, Anthony wakes with a steadiness he hasn’t known in years. His pain ebbs, his senses sharpen, and for the first time in a long time, he notices the color of the sunrise. What follows isn’t a conversion; it’s a remembering, a return to a truth he had buried under routine and resignation. The rock becomes less an artifact and more an invitation. It doesn’t grant him power; it reminds him that life itself has never stopped reaching out.

Gifford writes these moments with the patience of prayer. There is no dramatic music, no holy chorus, only a man listening closely to what silence has been trying to say. As Anthony begins to visit old friends and strangers alike, something begins to stir. His touch carries warmth; his words bring clarity; his very presence seems to quiet unrest. Yet Gifford refuses to frame these moments as supernatural. Instead, he allows ambiguity to breathe, suggesting that perhaps miracles are not interruptions of nature, but its fulfillment.

As Anthony shares his gift, if it can be called that, his world widens. A bedridden neighbor rises after his visit. A mother finds peace in forgiveness. Yet the more he gives, the more he realizes the power was never in him but through him. It is this realization that crowns the novel’s quiet triumph: faith, in its truest form, does not inflate the ego; it dissolves it.

Bigger closes not with certainty, but with peace. It doesn’t demand that readers believe in miracles; it asks them to believe in renewal. To remember that every breath carries the possibility of beginning again. Anthony Gifford’s message lingers long after the last line: that hope, when given room to breathe, will always find its way back to life.