People can say that miracles are a thing of the past. They can say that miracles only happened in biblical days. They can say whatever they want. But when a miracle happens to you, it really doesn’t matter what anyone says.
When I was only 11 weeks pregnant with our second baby, I was leaving the YMCA in Bloomington, Indiana, after teaching a low-impact aerobics class when I doubled over with pain in the parking lot. I knew something was wrong.
I was right.
Turns out, I wasn’t only cramping, I was bleeding.
I drove straight to my OBGYN and through tears explained what was going on. After an exam and what seemed like hours, the doctor said very matter-of-factly, “I’m afraid I don’t have good news–you’re miscarrying your baby. I want you to go home and rest with your feet up, and if you pass it before Monday, go to the ER.”
I stared at him blankly, completely in shock.
“That’s it? There’s nothing else you can do?”
“I’m afraid not,” he said, patting me on the back.
Lying on our couch with my feet up, per doctor’s orders, I couldn’t help but think, “This can’t be it. This can’t be the end of the story.”
“Sis!” my older sister Martie called, making her way through the house. “Mom just told me.”
Martie listened to me relay the horrible diagnosis, and then she said, “Get up and get ready. You’re coming to church with us tonight.”
“I can’t go anywhere,” I answered, kind of aggravated she’d even ask. “Did you not just hear what the doctor said I had to do?”
“Yes I heard,” she continued. “But I know you and Jeff are supposed to go with us to hear this evangelist tonight.”
Knowing my sister would never take “no” for an answer, I told Jeff to hurry, and we’d go with them to church. So, my parents, my sister and her husband, and Jeff and I went to a revival service in downtown Bedford to hear an evangelist I knew nothing about in a place I’d never been before.
And, we were running late to add even more stress to an already stressful situation. As we slipped into the back row, the evangelist looked our way and said, “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Not going to lie–I was a little embarrassed, figuring he’d called us out for being tardy.
I tried to listen as he preached but I kept thinking about my baby. I looked down at my belly that wasn’t showing with pregnancy yet, and wondered if this miscarriage was my fault for teaching low-impact aerobics that day.
Just then, the evangelist stopped his message, got very quiet, and said, “Someone here has been told that you are going to miscarry your baby today, and I’m here to tell you that’s a lie from the pit of hell. Come up here, I want to pray for you.”
I froze–unable to move at all–wondering if he was talking about me or if possibly another woman could have received my same dismal diagnosis.
Another lady across the auditorium stood up, and he said to her, “Ma’am you’re not the one God showed me, but I will pray for you…”
“I think he’s talking about you,” Jeff whispered in my ear.
I knew he was, but I still couldn’t move. Plus, I just couldn’t wrap my mind around it. I had grown up in a very traditional church where that kind of stuff just didn’t happen.
Could this be real? Could this be for me? Could this be God?
Before I could think another thought, the evangelist walked all the way to the back, grabbed my hand, and led me down front. Hot tears filled my eyes and my throat.
That evangelist pointed right at my belly and said, “I declare today that your little girl will live and not die and declare the works of the Lord! And you will not have any more trouble with this pregnancy!”
Little girl? I’m having another girl! And, she’s gonna live?!
As soon as he spoke those words, I felt an intense warmth flow through my body. It was so overwhelming that I fell to the ground–actually on top of the evangelist, I later learned.
The next half hour is a blur for me, but I remember lying on the ground, knowing that God had restored my pregnancy, knowing that I was having a baby girl, and knowing that she would be mighty for God.
Monday’s doctor’s appointment confirmed what I already knew–there was a strong a heartbeat, and it belonged to my baby girl.
Allyson Michelle Adams was born on Aug. 15, 1994.
As she turned 20 this year, I reminded her that God used her very birth to lead our family into a deeper faith and that he has a very big call on her life.
She’s my miracle.
See, you can’t tell me that God isn’t a miracle-working God. I know differently. I lived it. I felt it. I saw the doctor’s report. And, now I have a living, breathing miracle serving God in Los Angeles.
If you’re believing God for a miracle today, be encouraged! We serve a God who makes a way where there is no way. He is the God of the impossible. And, he is still in the miracle-working business–just ask Ally.
