Oh, God, why must I continue to suffer in this dark valley? Why couldn’t this birth be easy?
For the second time in my pregnancy, I battled premature labor. After 22 weeks, I endured surgery to close my cervix. Then I was confined to bed for three months. Spiritual battles intensified as the months progressed.
My body was being pumped full of ineffective sedatives and contraction-ending drugs. My unborn baby was unresponsive, and my mental stamina eroded along with my physical state. Now, in my seventh month, I was alone in a dark hospital room. And terrified of the outcome.
Almost two years earlier, our precious daughter Victoria died during a delivery that almost ended my life as well. My husband Chris and I had grieved deeply and struggled to recover. We had prayed earnestly until we were certain God was with us and we should try again. I closed my eyes and returned to a favorite prayer by James Dillet Freeman that I had learned:
The light of God surrounds me;
The love of God enfolds me;
The power of God protects me;
The presence of God watches over me.
Wherever I am, God is.
Over and over I repeated it, with additional fervor during the worst waves of breath-stopping contractions. It helped me to focus on the loving presence of Jesus.
My doctor, who monitored my condition and gave directions from his home, seemed unresponsive to my distress. Medication levels elevated repeatedly as my contractions worsened. Already fearful, I grew even more concerned for the effect of the drugs on my unborn baby.
At six the next morning, contractions still crushed against my pelvis. I gripped my pillow and repeated my prayer more intensely. My nurse evaluated the monitor yet another time. She said nothing, but she seemed nervous and left abruptly. Only minutes later, my doctor called on my bedside phone.
“I think it’s time to hang this one up. I’m going to stop the medication,” he said. “When I get there, I’ll cut the stitches and let whatever happens, happen. I think we’ll be having a baby here within the next several hours.”
Excitedly I called Chris. “Hurry to the hospital,” I said and repeated what the doctor had told me.
One of the nurses notified the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU) that a six-and-a-half-month preemie would likely be delivered in a few hours. The nurses seemed extremely excited. The contractions came and each one seemed harder. But by six-thirty the pain bordered on unbearable.
“Oh, dear Jesus,” I choked, “please help me bear my burden. You took me through this once before, so please help me again. Please.”
Suddenly an unrelenting contraction slammed my body. Terror pierced me. The next contraction escalated ferociously. My baby was arriving in a dark, lonesome hospital room. Hysterical, I screamed for someone to help me. As my nurse hurried into the room, I wailed, “It’s here. My baby’s here.”
“Stop pushing!” She placed one hand on my unborn baby’s head. She called for help through the wall intercom. Within seconds a barrage of nurses swarmed in, and a call went to the NICU.
My doctor hadn’t arrived, so someone on staff called an emergency room doctor. We waited, and I prayed in hyperventilating jerks. For ten minutes, a nurse kept my baby from complete delivery before the doctor suddenly appeared and stared aghast at the chaotic scene.
“Is there a heartbeat?” I asked several times. No one answered. The monitor had slipped, and everyone had forgotten about checking the baby’s condition.
Quickly and calmly my doctor instructed me to push gently. Three times I obediently followed his order. Finally, my baby was born. “It’s a boy,” a nurse squealed.
Before long, I was able to sit up and take in the beautiful vision of my newborn baby. He lay absolutely still and lifeless on the bed; his little form in a dreadful hue of blue.
Collapsing on the pillow, I dragged a wet washcloth over my face and mumbled into the damp cotton, “Oh, God, I can’t lose another one. I just can’t lose another baby. Please don’t make me go through this again. I thought I could, but I can’t.”
Just then, a nurse I didn’t recognize grabbed my right hand and arm, leaned over me, and began praying magnificent words of power and conviction. Her voice was soothing, and I felt instant gratefulness for her presence.
“Are you a Christian?” she asked matter-of-factly.
“I certainly am.” I stared at the young woman who had appeared so suddenly. She continued to pray while puffing up my pillows and cleaned the area around my head and arms. I couldn’t seem to take my gaze off her.
Each gesture felt like a silent signal for more inner peace. I wasn’t the only one staring at her. Other nurses observed her somewhat questioningly, as if they didn’t recognize her or understand why she was there.
She ignored them and continued to smile and talk softly to me.
“Is he breathing?” I asked.
“They’re working on him,” came the reserved and succinct reply from a voice near my bed.
Everyone seemed busy while anxiously waiting for some noise to escape from the baby warmer in the corner where a team of NICU nurses blocked my view. A hush, stretching like eternity, filled the room. “Is he breathing yet?” Feeling as if I would crack from the choking volume of silence, I asked again.
“They’re still working on him,” another nurse said without meeting my eyes. I was ready to ask yet again when a beautiful, tiny cry emitted from the table over which the group huddled. A cheer erupted from the staff as the team whisked my son to the NICU.
In that instant, the terror, the bottled-up emotions, doubts, and anguish dissolved. My baby had arrived. He was real; he was breathing. I knew he would be fine.
My gaze scrutinized the room, seeking the face of my praying nurse. She was gone. She hadn’t said anything—not a single parting word before she left. Vera, a nurse who had cared for me during the first bout of premature labor three months earlier, stayed to change my pillows, remove my IV, and return the room to some semblance of order. When the two of us were alone together, I asked, “Who was that nurse? The one who prayed?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen her before.” She stopped and stared at me. “I’ve worked here a long time. Maybe she came from the emergency room. Would you like me to find out?”
“Yes, please. I’d like to thank her.” “I’ll order breakfast for you, get some clean towels for your shower, and ask around.”
“Thank you.”
Within half an hour she returned. “I asked the nurses in the emergency department, and they’d never seen her before. They thought it was strange too. No one I talked to has ever seen her before.”
“You’re saying that she just came, prayed for me, and then disappeared?”
“Kind of strange, isn’t it?”
I nodded. Nothing more needed to be said. Vera left, and I lay in bed, once again staring at the ceiling.
Could it be, God? Could You have sent an angel just for me? An angel in nurse’s scrubs? Or a dedicated nurse moved to deliver comfort to a weak, terrified mother?
God had walked me through a blackened valley and onto a mountaintop. If the birth had been easy, would I have missed His miraculous love, provision, and power? Thankfulness and awe of my loving God engulfed me. I closed my eyes and wept.
Now years later, whenever I remember that day, I wonder anew. And I’m humbled. Regardless of whether it was a human being or an angel (which is what I believe), I know that God sent that messenger—that ministering spirit—to meet my need.
