Last year, on September 11th, 2025, I had to run some errands. I needed to obtain a document from the South American Consulate, located in Coral Gables, Miami-Dade County. I wasn't feeling well. I was somewhat irritable. I felt somewhat defeated. I was pessimistic. I didn't want to go, but I had no choice. So I went.

It's one of those places where you have to search for parking. You have to calculate your money carefully so you don't get turned away after making the trip. It's a hassle. I didn't want to go, but I had to. I needed this document. So I went.

When I arrived, it was around noon, 12 PM. It was a sunny day. I didn't have an appointment. At that Consulate—which is a type of diplomatic office building, sort of like an embassy though not technically one—you need an appointment. I didn't have one. Nevertheless, I went in.

I recall that on the first floor, near the elevators, there was a folding table like you'd see at a supermarket, where someone was selling insurance or something of that nature. I paid no attention to that person and simply pressed the elevator button and went up to the second floor.

Upon reaching the second floor, I wasn't sure what to do since I lacked an appointment. I noticed one window was open with a single staff member working there. I approached him and asked, "Is there any chance someone could help me? My document has been delayed for two years now. I really need assistance."

He replied, "Yeah, you really need an appointment. I don't see how we can help you. I'm sorry. You genuinely need an appointment. Check if there's an open window later, and if no one's left, maybe someone can assist you."

To my surprise, the place was crowded. There was no available space for me. If I wanted to wait until the end of the day, I would have to stay until perhaps 4 PM to receive help. It was noon—around 12:06, 12:07, 12:10 by then. I became very frustrated.

I moved to the back of the lobby and thought, "Check if a window opens and someone might eventually help you." But you don't want to do that at a consulate with that kind of staff—they don't appreciate when people try to cut in line or receive privileged assistance. They dislike that.

So I decided, "It looks pretty hopeless today. I'm not going to get help without an appointment. I should start leaving." I was at the lobby, heading toward the back. I noticed a hallway next to the elevators and thought, "Let's wait a little while. If I see someone who might help me, I'll ask." I didn't see anyone.

Then I told myself, "You know what? Time to leave. You tried, you gave it a shot, but it just didn't work out. You don't have an appointment. You have to leave." I made the decision to go.

As I turned to enter the hallway where the two elevators are located, I saw a man right by the first elevator. He appeared frozen in place, as if he had been walking but became paralyzed mid-step. I thought, "Oh, that's a wax figure." Then I reconsidered: "No, it's not a wax figure—it's a homeless person." That was my initial impression because he was flesh and bone like you and me.

But when I looked more closely, he appeared fresh, very clean, very much alive. He didn't resemble a homeless person—homeless individuals typically appear dirty: their hands, nails, nose, hair, feet, and clothing all show signs of living on the streets. That's how we identify homeless people, by their unkempt appearance.

This man, however, was looking straight ahead, not at me. I took in the full view: his face, his hair, his shoulders, then his entire body. He wore a tunic made of rough fabric—a brownish, rope-like material. In South America, this type of fabric is used for fifty-pound potato sacks. That's what his tunic resembled: brownish in color.

He was barefoot, appearing as though he were in motion—his right foot lifted while his left remained on the ground. No shoes, no sandals. No belt, no sash, no bracelet, no necklace. He wore nothing ornamentally. He looked like a homeless person.

He never glanced at me. He never blinked.

At that point, I felt confused: "Is this a wax figure or a homeless person?" I examined him more carefully. He was a very handsome young man, perhaps between 20 and 28 years old. He had long black hair, a fit physique, and appeared to be in good shape. Despite wearing the tunic—which extended to his wrists—I could see his hands. He held both arms extended outward, as if welcoming people. His right foot remained lifted, as though caught mid-stride. No sandals, no footwear whatsoever.

His skin was very dark, yet he possessed Caucasian features. He appeared European in facial structure but was deeply pigmented—not like African Americans, but rather like people from India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, or Sri Lanka. That kind of darkness, with straight hair. His hair wasn't tightly curled but had a slight wave, falling past his shoulders. He resembled a rock star, honestly.

As I mentioned, he was an exceptionally handsome young man. Immaculately clean. He projected confidence and self-assurance. He appeared purposeful, as though he knew exactly what he was doing. He carried himself with authority. There was something charismatic about his demeanor.

I don't recall the area of his chest—whether the tunic was open or closed. That detail escapes me. But I do remember that the long sleeves, which extended to about two inches before his wrists, were somewhat white. Not frayed, but whitish. That caught my attention. His tunic caught my attention.

Then I thought, "You know what? I don't want any trouble. Whether this is a wax figure or a homeless person, I need to leave." So I moved to the second elevator behind him and pressed the button. From behind, he appeared as though he were walking. I observed his hair from the back—still that handsome young man, the type who frequents gyms, though his physique was obscured by the tunic.

The garment reached below his knees, but I could see his calves. He had beautiful hands and nice feet—his toes and fingers were well-formed and graceful. He showed no signs of needing assistance. He was definitely not homeless. That was my conclusion.

While looking at him from behind, I thought, "This is a South American consulate. These people don't celebrate Christmas in September." Then I reconsidered: "He's not a homeless person either, because I know the staff from this South American country—they would have removed him by now if he were homeless."

Finally, I told myself, "Just get out of here. Go back home. Your wife is waiting for you." So I did. I entered the elevator, descended, and remember saying goodbye to the man selling insurance or whatever it was at that supermarket-style table near the consulate entrance.

I returned to my vehicle. I still had some time left on my parking—it hadn't expired. I drove home and didn't think much about the experience. I told myself, "Well, I'm not sure what I saw, but I won't dwell on it."

It wasn't until the next day, September 12th, that I realized: "I know what I saw. That man was Jesus." It was Jesus, and it was an apparition. He appeared to me. He chose me—among 8.1 million people, he chose me. He showed himself to Miguel. He had a message to convey, though I don't know what purpose. He wanted to communicate something, but I don't understand what.

But I saw him. His face—he had a nice nose. His cheeks radiated, literally shone. You could perceive wisdom in his eyes, but mercy and compassion were visible in his cheeks. The way his hands extended, welcoming people—his fingers were slightly curved, like a crab's legs when they fold inward. His hands weren't fully open, similar to the Christ the Redeemer statue atop the mountain in Rio de Janeiro. Very similar.

However, the Jesus I saw was walking in place. He wasn't moving, of course—he was stationary—but captured in the act of walking. He wore no sandals. He was barefoot. His beard was neatly groomed, not unkempt or disheveled, but well-kept. His hair was black—not an intense, absolute black, but dark. His beard was dark. He had no gray hair whatsoever. He didn't appear 33 years old; he looked at most 26, 27, or 28. It was a younger version of Jesus Christ.

What else did I observe? I don't recall his eyebrows. His eye color—I remember they were brown. Not green, not blue, not black. Brown.

What struck me was that despite his European features, his skin was very dark—the kind of pigmentation I've seen in Hindu people from India. That seemed unusual because while Indians have dark skin, they possess Indian features. This man had European features, which captured my attention. And he didn't resemble a Sephardic Jew, which Jesus historically was. He didn't look Sephardic; he appeared European with very dark complexion. Well, not extremely dark, but dark.

What else do I remember? I don't recall his teeth. He had nice lips—not thick, proportionate. He was simply a very handsome young man. I'm not inclined to describe men, but he was genuinely attractive. Broad shoulders. His hair was beautiful—not curly, but with some wave, falling below his shoulders. Not excessively long, but below the shoulders.

That is all I remember. And that was my experience.

Why did he appear to me? I don't know. I am still struggling to understand the meaning of this apparition.

God bless you, and God bless everybody.