by Amy Newmark
We have to pray with our eyes on God, not on the difficulties.
~Oswald Chambers
I can still see the hands on the clock: 1:05 a.m. on August 21, 1996. Why was the telephone ringing? I didn’t wake up readily but Nancy was already halfway to the kitchen telephone. It was our son-in-law. “Mom, it’s Brian. I have to take Elaine to the hospital. Can you come and stay with Jamie?”
Nancy was out the door and across Albuquerque in record time. What was wrong? Elaine’s first pregnancy and delivery with Jamie were perfectly normal and this pregnancy had been normal too, until now. Why the emergency call?
With no notice and no preparation, Elaine had an emergency C-section at twenty-five weeks, versus the normal forty weeks. Fortunately, Elaine was in the best neonatal intensive care unit hospital in the region. Naturally she was devastated and depressed by what happened, but she was alive and physically well.
The baby was anything but normal. Survival was unlikely. One pound, ten ounces. 739 grams. Was pulling the plug a possible necessity? If the baby did live, it would face a long list of very likely serious problems common to preemies.
Blindness? Brain? Lungs? Joints? Infections? Heart? Blood? The baby had six of those seven common major problems. And it was so terribly tiny.
After the baby survived twenty-four hours Elaine said, “Brian, we haven’t even discussed names. I can’t think at all now, but the baby should have a name. Please name her.” We could now attach our fervent prayers to her by name—Kimberly Diane.
Was it right or realistic to expect God to intervene in what appeared to be an essentially hopeless cause? We prayed for God’s loving presence and support for Kimberly, for her parents and for the extended family. We prayed for God’s will to be done.
Five days after her birth, Kimberly had lost twenty-three percent of her birth weight. She wasn’t blind, but she had retinopathy and her eyes were fused closed. Both conditions resolved themselves without surgery. She had grade 1 brain hemorrhaging that absorbed itself without treatment. Her lungs were so undeveloped they could not be seen on the first X-ray. With her parents’ written permission, Presbyterian Hospital tried a surfactant drug on this youngest and smallest preemie ever to be so treated. It worked.
At six days Kimberly’s white count shot up, indicating infection and requiring her return to the ventilator. There was an abnormal hole in her heart, which healed by itself. She received eleven transfusions of her Uncle Marshall’s blood, five cc (one teaspoon) each time. The list of her abnormalities and special treatments was seemingly endless.
Kimberly was three weeks old when Elaine was first allowed to hold her. Elaine sat next to the incubator with its “739 grams” label, and fed her. Jamie watched intently and gently touched her little sister’s forehead.
Our church family was wonderfully supportive. Our pastor and friend, Leonard Gillingham, faithfully did the required medical scrubbing, donned the mask and gown and visited Kimberly. He was the grandfather of a preemie and keenly understood the situation. It was comforting to know that his granddaughter had survived, but of much concern that she still had serious problems.
Leonard took it upon himself to keep everyone in our church informed about Kimberly. He preached a special sermon on October 27 about Kimberly and her first two months of life. On November 17, Leonard announced in the worship service, “Tomorrow Kimberly Legan will leave the hospital and come home.” The entire congregation erupted in clapping and cheering.
She did come home the following day at age ninety days, sixteen days before her original due date. She weighed just under four pounds. All was apparently okay, but it was also scary. Only two days earlier Nancy and I attended a special baby CPR class with Kimberly’s parents. The responsibility of what to do in an emergency without the help of trained medical personnel was overwhelming.
Initially an in-home nurse, a physical therapist and an occupational therapist continued to care for Kimberly. She had made amazing progress in the first three months of her life but had a long way to go. And she did!
At age ten and eleven she played Upward Basketball at church better than most of the other girls. In high school, she is on the tennis team. As a junior she is president of her school’s State Championship Show Choir and a nearly straight-A student.
Yes, Kimberly survived. She became a healthy child and a vibrant young woman, just as we had prayed seventeen years earlier. It now appears that normal adulthood is just around the corner.
I’m slow to declare miracles, but it appears that I’m watching a miracle continue to develop right under my nose.
~Dale N. Amend
Divine Tapestry
Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.
~Albert Einstein
When the pastoral search committee from the church in the mountains just north of us issued a formal invitation to hire my husband, Bruce and I had some concerns. Don’t get me wrong. Everything about the church in Oakhurst, from the friendly people to the surrounding Sierras, seemed perfect. But our youngest daughter had several challenging heart problems. We weren’t sure she would thrive at a higher elevation, so we made an appointment to see her doctor.
Dr. Jue had been Ashley’s cardiologist for three years and he loved her as much as we loved him. We explained our possible plans as he examined Ashley.
“She seems to be pretty strong right now. We are a few years out from another surgery. You could give it a try and see how she does at that elevation,” he mused.
“In other words, we need to rent not buy,” I commented.
“Yes,” Dr. Jue responded. Then with a thoughtful expression, he remarked, “Wait a minute.” Still pensive, he held up his finger and hurried out of the room. He returned quickly, holding an 8x10 glossy of a gorgeous house. Laying it down in front of us he said, “This belongs to a colleague of mine at USC Medical Center. It’s in Oakhurst and he’s asked me to keep an eye out for possible renters. The house has 2,000 square feet with a trout pond in the front yard and a seventy-five-foot waterfall that pours right into the Fresno River in back.”
“That’s an amazing place. He probably figured you could find a doctor to rent it. I’m afraid the housing allowance for a pastor wouldn’t come close to paying for a place like this,” my husband said.
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Dr. Jue responded. “I’ve known your family for three years. I’ll put in a good word for you with Dr. Takahashi. He’s looking for responsible renters and I think he would be hard pressed to do better than you.”
We thanked the good doctor for his kindness and vote of confidence, but inside we both felt like the house was way out of our league, so we pretty much dismissed it as an option—until that evening.
The phone rang about 9:00 and a soft-spoken man introduced himself as Mike Takahashi. He explained how Dr. Jue had highly recommended us as renters, and he and his wife, Marcia, wanted to meet us the following Saturday. We agreed to go to meet this friendly man even though we figured our meager housing allowance wasn’t near the amount his fabulous home deserved.
We spent the day with the Takahashis and fell in love with them. They showed us their house. Our kids fed the trout and played in the river. We talked about the church they attended in L.A. and about all the plans we had for the church we had been called to in Oakhurst.
At the end of the day, as we sat on the deck, Marcia stated, “We had a businessman from Sacramento express interest in renting the place. He offered us $1,400 a month, but I really want to rent this house to a family. There’s so much for kids to enjoy here. I would like to see your family here. Are you interested?”
“Who wouldn’t be?” I replied. “But, Marcia, the housing allowance the church is giving us is only $750. We know you can get much more than that.”
“Can we have a minute?” she asked. As we nodded she and Mike disappeared into the house. In a few short minutes they emerged smiling ear to ear. “We’ll take $750 with one request. We would like to be able to come
and stay here with you on some weekends when we can get away from L.A.”
“That would be great for us,” I responded. “You get to enjoy your house and we would love to spend time with you!”
That was the beginning of a delightful friendship. We shared many dinners together enjoying the mountains and each other’s company.
While we were there, it became clear that Ashley needed another heart surgery. There was a question as to whether the surgeons at our local children’s hospital could handle a surgery with all the complexity of her multiple diagnoses. When Bruce called Mike for a listening ear, he got so much more.
“Dr. Jue sent me Ashley’s file and her situation is unique and complicated. There are probably only two places in the world that could handle a surgery of this magnitude. One is in Minnesota and the other is UCLA. Both are practically impossible to get into, but you happened to know someone with influence. Hillel Laks at UCLA owes me a favor. He can return that favor by performing Ashley’s surgery. Studying under Christiaan Barnard, Laks just happens to be the most prominent heart surgeon in the world right now.”
Fighting back tears, Bruce could hardly respond. “How can I ever thank you?” Bruce asked.
“Seeing Ashley thrive will be thanks enough,” Mike responded.
After a few stressful weeks of waiting, we had a surgery date with the renowned Dr. Hillel Laks. With the amazing surgeon’s skill and a ton of people praying, Ashley sailed through her surgery.
As we visited her in cardiac recovery, an adorable young nurse commented, “This is, like, a miracle and stuff. Ashley is, like, getting better by the minute!”
I’m not sure we truly grasped what a miracle it was until a few days later. As Ashley was recovering, Bruce went down to the medical center bookstore at UCLA. My husband is an avid reader. I marvel that he decided to reduce his stress by reading complicated medical journals.
Bruce picked up a surgeon’s journal published several years earlier. He read that the procedure to repair Ashley’s set of the congenital heart problems had been performed 347 times and had succeeded zero times. Later Bruce asked Mike if the surgical procedure had been updated. He said no. The only difference between past surgeries and Ashley’s was the precision of the surgeon, and she had been blessed with the best in the world.
If I live to be a hundred, I will continue to be awed by the amazing tapestry God put together on our behalf. If the church hadn’t called us to pastor we would not have needed to visit Dr. Jue. Then we would not have needed a house to rent in Oakhurst. We would not have met Dr. Mike Takahashi, one of the few men on the planet who could have gotten Ashley a surgery with one of two doctors in the world who could save her life. What a miracle!
~Linda Newton
The Box
Fate laughs at probabilities.
~Edward George Earle Bulwer-Lytton
I’m not sure how long I sat there staring at the e-mail. It may have been a minute, it may have been an hour. It was a short message—only three sentences, fewer than fifty words, but I knew it would change everything for me. I was suddenly hearing a voice that had been silent in my life for seventeen years. Until now. Somehow, I had my Amy back.
Even after nearly two decades apart, I could hear her laugh, smell her hair, feel her presence. As the shock and surprise eventually yielded enough to allow rational thinking, the words and wisdom of my late father inexplicably came to mind — sometimes things don’t turn out the way you plan.
For the last year my life had been changing at lightning speed. An unexpected phone call on an ordinary Friday led to the abrupt end of my twelve-year marriage. This was merely the opening act of weeks of pain, frustration, and arguments. Children, family, and friends were notified, and I found myself packing for the move that would usher in the rest of my life, whatever it held. That’s when I found the box.
It was a square cardboard box, which had apparently been pushed to the back of my now-empty closet. I opened it to discover remnants of my childhood and college days—old awards and certificates, cards, letters, photos, and a small ring.
The ring. I held it in my hand and stared at it for several minutes. It was familiar, but why? Finally, a long-closed door in my memory opened, and I remembered. I gasped out loud—not an exclamation, but a name—“Amy.” Yes, the ring belonged to Amy.
I suppose nearly everyone has a memory of “the one that got away,” and Amy was mine. After meeting in junior high, we became best friends in high school, spending our days and nights talking about life and fate. A few years later, we decided to risk the friendship for a chance at love, and we began dating. By college, we were engaged, with a wedding and a lifetime of happiness within reach. But fate had different plans, and we eventually parted ways. As Dad always said, sometimes things just don’t turn out the way you plan.
I continued to stare at the ring and reveled in the unexpected trip down memory lane. As I began to repack the contents of the box, I realized I couldn’t simply pack the ring away. It belonged to Amy and I needed to return it to her. I had not heard anything about her for years, but the last information I had put her thousands of miles away — and married. Suspecting that the re-emergence of a former fiancé after so many years might be disruptive, I reached out to a mutual friend to ask if I could simply mail her the ring and let her handle getting it back to Amy. So I e-mailed the friend to get her address, and briefly explained my circumstances. She immediately replied, and assured me that I could contact Amy without disrupting her life.
And that’s when it happened. In a blink of an eye, I had my best friend back.
A brief e-mail led to another, then another. Within a day, pages of e-mails were exchanged, as we caught up on our seventeen years apart. I learned that Amy was also going through a divorce, having just filed the paperwork a few days before. I learned that we were both in the same line of work. I learned that she was living about 2,000 miles away from me, but ironically, she was minutes away from a town I’d be visiting in a few weeks. I learned about the winding path her life had taken over the years. I learned I was still in love with her.
E-mails gave way to texts, which turned to daily phone calls, leading to a surreal reunion a few weeks later. I don’t remember much of the conversation from that night. I remember laughing. I remember trying to keep my heart from bursting out of my chest. I remember feeling at home again.
Over the following weeks and months, we marveled at the miraculous timing of all of it. How could both of us, with zero contact for almost two decades, come back together as we did? How could we be going through simultaneous divorces after we’d each been married for more than a decade? What were the chances of finding the box at that precise moment in time, along with the ring, forgotten dreams, and a mutual friend to connect the final missing piece?
A little while later, I found myself at a secret lunch with Amy’s parents. For the second time, I asked for their permission to marry their only daughter. For the second time, they agreed. As I left the lunch, I assured them there would not be a third time. I was being given a second chance that few ever receive, and I wouldn’t waste it. Not today, not tomorrow. Not ever.
Several months later I stood in front of family and friends exchanging vows of marriage with the love of my life. She was no longer my ex-fiancée or “the one that got away.” She was now simply my wife. My best friend. My soul mate. My Amy.
Life can be a puzzle. At times, it can seem cruel and unyielding. But then there are the moments when the wonder and magic of it are almost too miraculous to fathom. Whether guided by luck, fate, or divine intervention, somehow we find our way to the place we belong.
And as it turns out, Dad was right. Sometimes things don’t turn out the way you plan.
Sometimes, they turn out even better.
~Rob L. Berry
Against All Expectations
A difficult time can be more readily endured if we retain the conviction that our existence holds a purpose—a cause to pursue, a person to
love, a goal to achieve.
~John Maxwell
In a small Connecticut town, one August morning in 1988, summer ended early for me. I stood over a load of clean laundry piled on my bed. As I started to fold a towel, warm from the dryer, I heard the front door open and the recognizable sound of flip-flops slapping against the soles of my daughter’s feet. My chest tightened. I wondered what she wanted from me this time. She climbed the stairs and settled on the corner of my bed.
“Mom,” Myra’s voice sounded edgy. “Would you take the kids?”
I stopped folding, straightened up and studied my twenty-three-year-old daughter. She wore no make-up. Her T-shirt was stained and ripped. She swiped at her cheek.
“I have a court date and my lawyer said I’ll probably go to prison. Will you take the girls?”
My breath caught in my throat. Her addiction to drugs had hurled our family through a vortex of lies, suspicion and fear. She began using drugs at a party in her teens. Somehow her friends who used drugs with her skipped the addiction part. Not Myra. Our family had cycled from crisis to crisis over the past eight years. It had worn me down. I’d seen the neglect of her children. I suspected she shoplifted. “So multiple larceny charges finally caught up with you,” I thought.
“Yes, of course.” I didn’t need to discuss this with my husband. Ken and I had talked about raising our grandchildren, always circling around to the parental guilt we felt. Where did we go wrong?
I silently asked God to make me brave.
“We’ll need legal custody.” I emphasized the word “legal.”
“Why?”
“Doctor visits, insurance, school admittance . . .”
There was an icy silence. Finally she nodded and gave into her sorrow, letting tears drip down her face. She let me hug her and then she left.
Three days later, I stared at my daughter and her husband, Ted. They glared back. I told myself they were the parents of my granddaughters and I should feel some compassion. But I felt nothing.
