I have learned that it is not philosophical arguments that persuade about faith, about God. It is our own stories of how God moved in our lives, what He and only He has done for us. It is those stories that change lives, that moves someone to take a chance on relationship with The Father. This is one of my faith stories.
Twelve years ago, I lost a little girl half way through my pregnancy. Her heart stopped beating at 4 ½ months. Because of my history of infertility (I was unable to have children after our first son was born), tests were run to determine the cause. Our little girl was a Trisomy 16 baby. It was amazing she had survived as long as she did. The doctor told us that they usually self-abort early in the pregnancy. Our little girl held on for quite a while.
Needless, to say, our hearts were broken. Our 3 sons so wanted a little sister. We called her Gracie. She’s in heaven now – and one day, I’ll get to hold her and tell her how much I love her.
After we lost Gracie, the book, Faith Study, by Kenneth Hagan got into my hands. It changed my life. It changed my mothering. It changed the words I spoke.
“…Have faith in God. For verily I say unto you, that whosoever shall say unto this mountain, be thou removed, and be thou cast into the sea; and shall not doubt in his heart, but shall believe that those things which he [says] shall come to pass; he shall have whatsoever he [says]”— Mark 11:23
I started speaking Faith. Speaking the promises of God! Speaking followed by believing behavior that the mountain has been moved, that the problem has been solved.
Every healing in Jesus ministry was followed by an act of faith by the person “healed.” The blind man had to open his eyes, the crippled man, stand, the leper had to go to the church leaders and announce his healing.
Even before I conceived my 4th son, I would say, “Thank you God for this whole healthy child.” It was a battle ground, my mind was, but I spoke my faith. Every time fear would creep in, I would speak my faith—I would stand on the promises found in the bible.
Two weeks before my son was born, on a Monday, one of the minister’s at my church called. He asked how I was doing. I spoke my faith, “I’m doing great.” He had been praying for me, so he called.
Tuesday of that week, I meet with the older women at my church for their weekly coffee. These women were a joy, so generous with my desire to know what it was like to grow old with your spouse. My parents had divorced, and I had so many questions. I wanted appropriate expectations of my marriage. That morning, they prayed for me and my baby. These lovely women surrounded me, laid hands on me, praying. One of the prayers stood out, the prayer that I would have a Spirit-filled delivery. That stuck in my mind. I just couldn’t imagine praise, prayer, and the Holy Spirit in the deliver room. Can you?
Wednesday night, after I delivered my boys to their classes at church, I made my way to our church bookstore. On the way, a lady came from around the corner. She called my name, so happy to see me. It was as though she had known me all my life. She told me she had been praying for me that morning. I had never seen her before, but I felt so hugged.
A lot of times in so many nooks and crannies, you have to be somebody special, somebody who’s somebody, to have people reach out to you. I was amazed at the generosity of this lady. All I could say was, “thank you,” as she turned to go into the sanctuary.
As I walked to the bookstore, the words, “Something’s going to happen,” went through my mind.
Something did happen. At the hospital, the doctor was checking me when the umbilical cord came out in his hand.
“Stat C-section,” he said to the nurse, still in bed with me, trying to keep the baby off the cord. My epidural was wearing off. I was flat on my back in the bed. My husband helped the nurse, pushing the bed to delivery.
The hallways were so cluttered. My KISA (Knight In Shining Armor) tried to ram the bed through the hallway, but it was so cluttered, we couldn’t move. The doctor’s legs kept flinging up until I finally grabbed them, holding them down so we wouldn’t fall off the bed.
All I remember thinking on that ride? I can’t go home with empty arms again.
The doctor’s wife called. He was supposed to be at a funeral. She wanted to talk to him. How unsettling to call and find out your husband cannot come to the phone because he is in bed with a patient (it makes a better joke after the crisis is over).
We finally got through to the delivery room where we waited. . . .waited because the nurse failed to say,,”Stat C-Section” when she paged the anesthetist.”
My husband doesn’t like me to tell this part, but it’s so important to the story. While we’re waiting for the anesthetist, my husband’s leaning over me at the head of the bed—Praying. His tears are falling into my eyes. I just keep saying, “Jesus,” only “Jesus.” Nothing more, because He knew what I needed.
When the anesthetist finally arrived, I asked him to just knock me out. Some of you know that when they knock you out, it’s like you wake up immediately, you’re at the end of the story. I always read the end of a story first!
He couldn’t. He couldn’t knock me out until they started cutting. The drugs couldn’t get the baby. There my husband stood, and the whole ER crew, nobody in sterile clothing, no sterile gloves. My husband, my sensitive, giving husband, told me later that the one thing that bothered him was the nurse crying.
“I don’t have a heart beat,” was the last thing I heard before they knocked me out. It was 16 minutes after the cord prolapsed.
I woke up to a lot of pain. I didn’t know what to expect. However, I heard my father-in-law joking about my snoring, and I heard little baby sounds.
My son was born healthy and whole. When they went in to find him, he wasn’t where they thought he was. They thought they were holding him off the cord. He was held up high—by the hand of God.
When I asked about the survival rate, the nurses told me that Cord Prolapse babies don’t usually make it and when they do, they are brain damaged. The cord prolapse deliveries before and after me didn’t make it.
When my minister came in to see me, I asked him about what God had put in heart when he prayed. He answered, “About the safety of the baby.”
The prayer of those little ladies? Yeah, it was a Spirit-Filled Delivery!
The lady who said she was praying for me? I believed she was part of the Wednesday morning prayer group. I assumed they had a pregnancy lady prayer list, and I was on it. She wasn’t part of a prayer group. They didn’t have a list. I never found her to thank her. I spent 18 months looking for her to thank her. She doesn’t exist. She was sent by God to let me know He had the situation taken care of.
Brain damage? It’s like he’s been given an extra measure of so many things. His nick-name is, “The Fire and the Power of the Holy Spirit.” He wants to take care of people. He prays for people. When he was 5, He tried evangelizing his younger brother. He has a work ethic that is so totally self-motivated to do his best.
I didn’t go home with empty arms. Speaking Faith—the promises of God—moved my mountain. It can move yours!