Why I Believe In Miracles

This is another paper I wrote for college writing but decided to put up here as well because it's one of my all-time favorite stories to tell.

Wednesday, January 20, 1999—First Southern Baptist Church, Del City, Oklahoma, 8:15 PM.

“David, my water just broke.”

I will never forget the panic in my mom’s voice as she uttered those words. At 9 years old, I naturally had no idea how “water” could “break.” But the way she froze and stared at my dad, her hands holding her stomach, told me that something was terribly wrong.

My dad stood stunned—but only for a moment. Then he jumped into action, words tumbling out as fast as his mind could form them. “Ok, ok—you go get in the van with Rachel—no, find Tammy first—and call your mom—I’ll get the rest of the kids.” He was already running down the hall, jostling through the crowd of parents picking their kids up from the Wednesday night activities at church.

I was confused. “Momma, what does that mean? How does your water break?”

My mom sighed. Paused. Then she looked at me. “It means I’m going to have the babies, Rachel.”

These words exploded inside my head. The twin boys were not due until April 10, almost three months away. I couldn’t move. Then, like my dad, I began talking very fast. “But—but it’s too early! They’ll die! What are we gonna do?!?” I raced down the stairs with my mom. We got into our big green van. My mom’s friend, Tammy, who was a nurse, put towels on the front seat for my mom to sit on. (I don’t remember exactly how Tammy got there—did my mom find her, or did I?). My younger brothers and sisters began arriving in ones and twos—there were eight of us all together. I filled them in on the situation, successfully making them at least as hysterical as I was. “Momma’s-water-broke-which-means-she’s-gonna-have-the-babies-but-it’s-way-too-early-and-they-might-die!!!” (I’m sure my mother is eternally grateful that she had my help in this situation.) My dad finally arrived at the van, carrying Jared, the youngest at the time. We drove to my grandparent’s house. The ride there was unforgettable. My dad swerved into oncoming traffic in order to pass slower-moving cars, and we discovered that it is in fact possible to turn a 15-passenger van on a dime.

When we arrived at my grandparent’s house, my parents dropped us off and sped away. We would be spending the night with my grandparents—beyond that no one knew what would happen. After Granny and Papa got us calmed down and we prayed together, all eight of us crowded into the tiny back bedroom for the night—the youngest three on the bed, the rest of us on the floor. I lay staring at the night light long after my siblings drifted off.

Three days later, the doctors were unable to delay the birth any longer. Joshua and Caleb were born January 23, 1999—eleven weeks early. Both weighed less than three pounds. Over the next few months my parents virtually lived in the NICU—Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. Ladies from church took turns babysitting all of us and making meals. A lot of people prayed for our family—we found out later that people we didn’t even know from other states were praying for us. It was rough—I got tired of always worrying and never knowing what would happen next. I was tired of having a different babysitter every day and never seeing my parents. I also didn’t understand how my parents could be so calm. Joshua had a 16 millimeter cyst on his brain, as well as severe hemorrhaging. Doctors told my parents that even if they lived, the boys would probably have severe cerebral palsy and would certainly never be normal. Yet my parents believed that not only would my brothers live, they would be completely normal, healthy boys. They hoped and trusted God when all the evidence stood against them.

I remember the first time I went into the NICU. Joshua and Caleb were kept underneath heating lamps because their bodies were too tiny to retain enough body heat. Their eyes were covered with little masks to shield them from the light. Monitors and tubes were everywhere. Their diapers, although roughly the size of a playing card, were too big. I wanted to cry; they looked so small and helpless--how did they stand a chance?

Caleb stabilized fairly quickly and soon learned how to breathe on his own. Joshua, however, quickly became known as "the roller coaster child." He was on and off the ventilator for about 8 weeks. The hemorrhaging in his brain continued, killing more brain cells every day, weakening his chances of survival.

"Know therefore that the LORD your God is God; he is the faithful God, keeping his covenant of love to a thousand generations of those who love him and keep his commands."--Deuteronomy 7:9

About 7 weeks after the boys were born, Momma and Daddy met with one of the doctors for a routine scan of Joshua’s brain. They had nicknamed this particular doctor “Joe Friday” because he “just gave the facts.” He picked up the most recent scan and glanced over it. His brow furrowed. “Well, this looks encouraging,” he said.

My parents were surprised. This was equivalent to any other doctor doing back handsprings down the hallway. They asked him what he meant. As my parents listened to the medical jargon they had grown so familiar with, they realized with shock what they were seeing.

Joshua’s brain was completely normal. There was no cyst, no hemorrhaging. Nothing. All of the damage had completely disappeared. It was just--gone. The doctors had no explanation for what had occurred. It was, quite simply, a miracle. Our prayers had been answered.

Soon after that, both of my brothers were allowed to come home. They are now almost 10 years old—completely normal, rowdy, mischievous boys. They are living proof that God is good and that He knows what He is doing.