Many years ago, a dear friend had complications with her first pregnancy. Today we would refer to the condition as pre-eclampsia, but back then it was known as toxemia. The field of medicine was not as advanced then, and so there was little the doctor could do except monitor vitals for the best time to deliver the baby. One day in September, the window of opportunity came.
What should have been a happy day was shrouded by grim reality. The doctor, who had known the lady and her family for many years, was kind but direct. “Go home. Spend some time with your husband, go visit your mother. Come back at three o’clock. I can’t save your baby, and I’m not sure I can save you.”
Over the next few hours, visits and decisions were made. The expectant parents happened to be in the funeral business at that time, so a tiny casket and clothes were selected. And yet, in my friend’s words, “I could not beg the Lord for my baby’s life.” A devout Christian, my friend was strangely at peace, knowing she and her baby were in God’s hands.
Several hours later, a tiny baby boy was born. Just over five pounds, skin darkened by the effects of his mother’s condition, but very much alive… and otherwise healthy. After a few days in the hospital incubator, the tiny baby went home and began to grow… and never stopped growing. He brought joy to his family as children do… first food, first tooth, first words, first steps. Toddling at break neck speeds, exploring his new world. One day the little one disappeared from an aunt, who was babysitting, and was found napping on the comfy pillow of a casket in the back room of the funeral home. As the years passed, more milestones were reached; first day of school, drivers license, first date, high school graduation, first job. The tiny boy became a man.
What a happy ending!
But, it gets better. You see…
The dear friend is my mother-in-law. The baby, born on this day all those years ago, is my husband.
And now you know why I still believe in miracles.