You’ve heard the songs, the stories, and the tales. It’s the classic testimony in “Amazing Grace” sung by everyone from The Queen of Soul legend Aretha Franklin to Queen of Country, Dolly Parton. We all know how it goes:
“Amazing grace. How sweet the sound. That saved a wretch like me. I once was lost. But now I’m found.
Was blind, but now I see.”
By definition, a miracle is a a surprising and welcome event that is not explicable by natural or scientific laws and is therefore considered to be the work of a divine agency.
You’ve read about them. You know about them. You believe in them. But on Wednesday, I experienced one.
I experienced a miracle.
It started Tuesday afternoon. It was an ordinary day. I’d taught my four-hour stint at the gym as I do every T/Th and came home tired, but no more than usual. Started working, checking email, and doing what I do, and realized, my back hurt. The lower right quadrant on the right side of my back.
Muscle strain, I thought. Or, I even thought to myself, “I must have ‘old people’ gas.” You know the old folk say they get gas all up their back. Well, I’d never experienced that, so I thought maybe this was it. I laid down to regroup myself and fell asleep. Awakened from a nap, ate dinner, was fine.
Next day, Wednesday.
My husband was off work. We run around and handled business. We had Mexican food for lunch. We picked up our daughters. We came home. I go to prepare for my Wednesday evening Boot Camp class. Sat down to check some emails, and again, my back hurts.
I get up. Think maybe I should go to the bathroom. And off I go: Off to the island of pain and desperation.
I began vomiting violently, uncontrollably. But worse than that, I could not stand up. I could not get my bearings straight. I tell my husband, “We need to go to the hospital, and we need to go NOW!”
Now, please know, because I have Crohn’s disease, the absolute last thing I want to do is to go to the hospital. But I knew this was no ordinary pain. It wasn’t a flare up. It was excruciating, like someone had stabbed me in the back, turned a knife, and wouldn’t move it.
As we try to get to the hospital, I tell him to pull over so I can throw up some more on the side of the road. We’re on one of the busiest streets in Chicago so my husband thinks the police may think we’re intoxicated or something. But they see me on the side of the road at the side of my car vomiting violently and say nothing. (No comment).
Get to the hospital, and for the next three hours while waiting to be seen, I writhe, wretch, seriously wonder if I’m about to die.
Again, I could not stand up and the only relief I could conjure was to pull every one of my locs out of my hair. I was doubled over in pain. I begged the nurses to see me. I begged them to help me. I tell my husband we should leave and go somewhere else. “I’m in pain!” I scream, mutter, moan, and cry out desperately. Nothing. I stayed that way for three hours with the only one name I could say being, “Jesus!” which I must have said a million times.
Finally, finally I get in to the actual emergency room, and practically jump out of my clothes to hurry up and get into the gown so they could get to my veins. I know the hospital ER routine. I’m a pro. Usually, I hate the IV process because they can never get to my veins on the first attempt, but I didn’t care this time. Here are my arms. Here are my veins. I’m pumping my fist. Get the needle in my arm. Please give me something. Surely I’m going to die!
Thanks to social media, I roll over and see my friend walk into the room and takes my hand because she saw my husband’s post on Facebook asking that people pray for us. And like a true friend, she took the initiative to come to the ER without a formal invite. She came with a purpose. She was on assignment.
As soon as I see her I begin to weep like a little girl whose Mommy just entered. “I’m going to die!” I tell her. “I’m in pain. No one will do anything about my pain. I’m IN PAIN!” She holds my hand and tells me “It’s going to be okay.” I can make it, she assures me.
I’m not too sure.
As I’m rocking and rolling and crying and weeping and screaming and moaning, I pause long enough to tell them, “I’m going to be sick.” Again, more vomiting and heaving. Nothing to come up but my body kept shaking and convulsing.
Then I realized that my friend, a minister, and my husband, were behind me with their hands on my right side, the side with the feeling of the knife still lodged in my back, praying. I mean, whispering and praying and talking. I couldn’t really hear what they were saying. I was looking for the proverbial white light.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I get morphine. Like a fiend who’d finally gotten their fix, I lay back to let the opiate overtake me. But it didn’t. It numbed my anxiety about the pain, but the pain, the pain never ceased.
Now, it’s time to go for a CT scan. The tech wheels me away and I’m supposed to go from the one bed to the other, but I can hardly move. I slide myself over to the next bed, sick, scared, and exhausted. They are looking for kidney stones. Or something with my gall bladder. My appendix. Something.
I breathe. Hold it. Stop. Breathe again. And do everything the tech says.
It’s over. Back to ER.
Once there, I ask the nurse, who’s assured me that what I’m experiencing sounds like kidney stones, if I can PLEASE have more pain medication. The doctor concurs. Hallelujah! Now they give me Toradol. I know the stench of that stuff. I’ve had it before with Crohn’s flare ups. I hate the smell but love the relief. I’m ready.
They shoot that in my IV and I finally relax. After six hours, I finally feel no pain.
The doctor comes in to give me the news.
They are discharging me.
They have found nothing.
No kidney stones. Crohn’s in remission. Appendix looks fine. Nothing wrong with my gall bladder. Nothing.
They find nothing.
What could possibly be the explanation of my going from having pain on a scale from 1-10 feel like 1M, and then have nothing? We sit there speechless.
“I’m going home?” I ask incredulously. “Why the pain?” They don’t know. “What was wrong with me?” The doctor tells me ,”This is GOOD news.” I mean, I get that, but what the heck has just happened to me for the last six hours?
The doctor leaves, and my minister friend asks just as calmly and coyly,
“Could it have been a miracle?”
And we just sat there stunned and stupefied. COULD it have been a miracle?
I mean, what else could it have been?
I could not stand up straight. I could not stop vomiting. I think I’m going to die. My friend and my husband place their hands on the area where my pain was and pray. I take the tests. They find nothing. The pain is gone. And still gone to this very day.
My minister friend says, “Well, my work here is done.” She explains to us that this is what REAL church is supposed to be like. When the people are sick, we are to call the elders of the church so that they can pray. And the sick person will be well, says the Gospel of James in chapter five and verse fourteen.
She leaves. My husband brings me my clothes. I sit straight up. I clothe myself. I walk out standing upright. Two days later I still have no pain.
What happened to me?
Was it a modern day miracle?
Does the “laying on of hands” really heal people?
Well, you just read MY story. You’ve heard my testimony.
Those answers should be really simple.
Yes! Modern day miracles really exist and I am one of them!
I had an unusual or wonderful event that I believe to be caused by the power of God.
Miracles are real!
About me: I’m a happily married mom of six daughters whose ages range from adult through pre-Kindergarten twins! I love God. Love writing. Love teaching fitness classes. And love sharing the Good News that a life of optimal health is available to all. I have been blessed by having the benefits of the 90-Day Challenge in my life, which I would tell everyone to try at least once because once you see how amazing you will feel and how simple this is, you will forever be transformed! For more information on The 90-Day Challenge, click here.