Category Archives: Uncategorized

The Poor

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Guest post by Meredith:

Honduras is the most poor country on this side of the world besides Haiti. Shanty towns are everywhere. Horses, cows, chickens, and dogs are roaming, looking for food. It is like The Great Depression all over again. It is not your paradise tropical resort.

The leader of our team was dumping garbage with one of the older boys. They were driving out the gates of the dump when the boy, Denis, pointed and said “I grew up over there.” There was a little shack like the one where he grew up. Kids were crawling on the garbage looking for paper to go to school. Huts and shacks circled the great mounds of trash.

When we as Americans use a piece of paper we don’t think that maybe little helpless innocent kids are out there. Out in the world looking on garbage dumps for paper. Just to go to school.

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Unfortunately, Meredith is correct about the poverty in Honduras and the children living in the garbage dumps. What she doesn’t fully comprehend (probably for the best at her young age) is that these children scour the trash not only for paper but for food, for everything. Of the 8 million people in the nation, an estimated nearly 200,000 children live in at-risk situations, falling victim to malnourishment, abuse, gang violence, incapable parents, fetal alcohol syndrome, abandonment. 

Heart to Heart has changed that story for more than one hundred lives; the ministry has taken in the abused and lost, given homes to the homeless, fed the starved, and loved every single heart. Oscar and Amy Serrano raise each child as they do their own two biological daughters. They know every story, every heartbreak, every hope. It’s hard for us to comprehend the harsh realities of life in Honduras, which is only one small nation in a world too full of third world problems. But seeing the positive impact made by ministries like H2H should encourage us. Just like Denis, the young man Meredith mentioned, children are being rescued, raised, and loved. 

For more information, visit www.h2hcv.org

The Chalk Fight

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Guest post by Meredith:

In every story, chalk is a cute thing that kids play with. Well, maybe I shouldn’t say every because it is definitely not cute in this story. This is a story about me and a girl, named Alma, at the village.

Now Alma was sitting with me “practicing my Spanish” at the chalkboard. Then I said, “I am bored.” 

“Of course you are,” she said. “So we have to spiff you up a bit.” She drew a long blue streak of chalk on my arm. 

“Hey!”

And we took off running.

Up the playground.

Down the slide.

Around the building.

Over the swings.

“Gotcha now!” I said. By this time my face was all blue and red, and she had no pink on her at all. I had her in a room, she was caught. Then she literally climbed up, onto a couch, and jumped out the window.

Through the window. 

Okay maybe Alma won that competition.

Be Still

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“If you’re tired, sit with a kid.”

Great advice for teams who come to the Heart to Heart children’s village in Honduras. Despite the heat and humidity, teams work on construction projects (building the houses, school, church), repair worn out buildings, create playground equipment, establish gardens, play soccer and basketball, play frisbee and chase. All of it taking a sweaty toll on the body. So when someone finally gets worn out, the best advice is not to sit alone, but to sit with one of the kids. Their ability to refresh the body and soul by their mere presence is amazing. 

All of the work we do is for them. Hard, backbreaking work at times. But none of the work would exist or be needed if not for the children. And so we, who can be caught up in the busyness of our tasks, must make a point to stop and be restored. There is no greater salve to the soul than to see little faces light up with the knowledge they are loved. They love to sit in our laps, just being. Some of them talk, but most are happy to have loving arms wrapped around their small shoulders, reassuring them. 

The joy I feel when I am able to pour my unconditional love into these children must pale in comparison to the joy my Father feels when I allow Him to love me as He intended. When I quiet my soul and look to His face, God is able to whisper “You are my beloved.” Do I willingly accept His love or do I try to rush to my next activity? Do I believe He loves me for who I am, or do I perform and try to prove I am worthy of such adoration? 

The children in Honduras continue to teach me so much by their examples – life lessons on acceptance, compassion vs. competition, hope, perseverance, empathy, and most of all unconditional love. Unlike my striving soul, these precious children know how to simply sit and be loved. They know their worth lies in God’s eyes and they don’t need to prove it. Unfortunately I had to say goodbye to my little loves today. As our van pulled away, my daughter and I held one another and sobbed. As we return home, rather than wallow in self pity, I hope I can honor the kids by finally learning what they know despite their youth: to rest in my Father’s arms and fully embrace His gracious Love. 

Honduran Waterpark

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What a full, fun day we had! Today made mission tripping feel like vacation. As a special treat, we used a portion of the money we raised to bring all the kids to a waterpark. I don’t know if I can describe what a joy it was for each of us. What we planned as a gift to them was given back to us ten-fold in laughter and memories. 

As with most everything here, a water park in Honduras looks quite different from anything back home. Set in the middle of a forest between the mountains and the coast, the Parque San Ignacio is both water park and zoo. There are no lifeguards, no rules, no overprotective parents slathering sunscreen or managing the lines for the slides. This was pure, un-Americanized freedom. For the kids and for us. 

We started the day by driving past the water park to the children’s village so we could board the school bus and ride with the kids. This has been a highlight of both my trips to Honduras. Piling 90 bodies into one hot school bus can only be fun if it’s packed full of people I love. And oh how I love these kids! With up to 5 to a seat, we squeezed in and laughed our way down the road.


At the park, we were given access to the main pool with its two water slides. The twisty slide was fun and ooooooohmygosh the steep slide was so fast! Kids and adults careened down and skimmed across the water like hovercraft. Two, three, even six kids at a time. They ran up the steps to go down again and again. These children make up the most amazing family, playing together like any other siblings, times 100. 

After a few hours of play, lunch arrived: 40 Little Cesar’s pizzas and 18 liters of soda to feed a hungry crowd. The zoo took us on a path deep into the woods. Jaguars, a puma, a lion, crocodiles, monkeys, and ostrich were all among the local and exotic animals. Just like my own children who visited the National Zoo today, these kids were delighted by the animals. Though it seemed to me, their favorite part was walking along with us. 


We circled the lake and returned to find the rest of the group laughing, splashing, having the time of their lives! And for many, this was. A day at the water park was, for the kids at H2H, the equivalent of a trip to Disney. An opportunity to play, to be a kid, to forget all the worries and burdens of a very harsh reality. A chance to just be fully present in the day and to make memories to last a lifetime. I know I did! 

My Barnacle Daughter

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My 10-year old daughter draped on my left arm is where I usually find her these days. Always pressing against me, I lovingly call her my Barnacle. For a couple of months, I haven’t been able to turn to the side without tripping over her. When I’ve finally had enough, I say “barnacle!” and she scatters; that’s her cue to give me space. But more and more, I’ve come to accept Meredith’s need to be so close to her mother. This phase of physical nurturing will end long before I’m ready. 


Perhaps our pending trip to Honduras had something to do with her increasing closeness. Or perhaps this trip was a gift for us both as we approach that precipice of the teen years. Whatever the case may be, my Barnacle has been a delightful travel companion. Our first day required us to be awake and out the door before 5:30 am. After three airports, two flights, and a two hour ride in the hot van, we arrived at our hotel. Always adventurous, Meredith was immediately ready to explore our home away from home. 

We spent our first two full days at the children’s village, getting to know the kids, learning dozens of names and faces, and battling house-fly sized mosquitoes and 100% equatorial humidity. My daughter has amazed me at every step. Especially those that took her away from me. My near-constant companion has been largely on her own, playing games, helping the kids write letters to their sponsors, teaching boys to make friendship bracelets, helping house mommies make fresh tortillas. Before she even met the kids, she volunteered to lead a devotional for the whole group, then practiced for two days to be ready. 

I am so proud of this young lady and grateful to watch her in an element that suits her so well. Her cheerfulness, teamwork, and commitment to the task inspire me to work harder. Her desire to know God’s Word and to share His truths encourages my anxious mother’s heart. But her God-given potential matched with her internal drive terrify me. As much as I want her to grow into the woman she is meant to be, I dread when I no longer feel the press of my little Barnacle.

So for now, we will make memories enough to carry us both …


A Little Goes a Long Way

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Yesterday, as we flew to Honduras, I pondered my part in this great big whole. Do the things I do really leave an impact? Can my visit to one orphanage in all the orphanages in all the world really make a difference? I’d like to think the answer is yes and she leapt into my arms today.

Four years ago, my heart broke as I held a sick baby girl. Her mother had just released custody and dropped her off at Heart to Heart. I had the unfortunate privilege of watching the surreal exchange. Noemi was lethargic, cried all the time, and had a deep cough. She needed sleep and tender care. So I rocked her for hours while she slept soundly on my chest. And then, a few days later, I had to leave her, not knowing how this child would adjust to her new reality. But I knew I left her in the care of a ministry dedicated to raising and loving their children. In the time since, I have received updates on Noemi and her 4 siblings, but nothing prepared me for our reunion. That sick baby is now a spunky five year old girl! When her sister led me to her today, little Mimi ran and jumped into my arms. She doesn’t remember me, or the bond we shared, or the prayers I lifted over her weak little frame. But she remembers love and pours it out freely. 

This tiny child sat on my lap and carefully formed the letters N O E M I L O P E Z in her little notebook, just as my own five year old does at home. I fought back tears; this sweet bundle of joy didn’t need to see me cry. But so overwhelmed am I at God’s provision in the life of this one child to bring her out of sickness and abuse to a home where she is loved and cared for. And for God’s provision in the life of every child at Heart to Heart. Although there are always more children to help, tonight 105 at risk children are sleeping soundly and safely thanks to this ministry dedicated to raising them. It’s not enough. It’s never enough. But Noemi taught me even a little makes a big difference!

http://www.h2hcv.org

Honduras today! 

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I cried when I left Honduras. Yearned to return before my flight even departed. Not knowing when or if I would get to see their faces again. But God answered my pleas. 

Today I am flying back to Heart2Heart, to the orphanage and the children I fell I love with. They won’t remember me, just another lady in a line of well-meaning visitors to their children’s village. Oh but I remember them, their smiles, their hugs, their kindness. And I remember profoundly, daily, the impact they had on my life. Children with no possessions aside from heartbreak and abuse, overflowing with a joy and love unlike any I’ve known. 

What will it be like this time? I’ve dreamt of it. Will I again be burdened with sadness for the destitute lives in this third world nation? Will I again be overwhelmed by how small I am in this huge cycle of poverty? In a place I can do so little to rescue these precious souls from despair, how can I make a difference? Our group of 10 carries six large duffle bags (nearly 300 lbs!), packed to the brim with school supplies, clothes, shoes, and athletic equipment, all of which came to us through the generous donations of friends in the US. All trip expenses have been covered through financial gifts and church funds. Encouragement fuels me and reminds me our small group is part of something larger. We get to partner with dozens of friends and family members at home who send their love, good thoughts, and faithful prayers. I choose to be filled with hope for the small impact we will have and it’s infinite ripple effect. I choose praise and thankfulness for the opportunity to return and share this experience with my group. 

And … wheels MIA – SAP!!

[Edited to share my first glimpse to which Meredith replied “Oh Mommy. You’re crying tears of happiness, aren’t you?” Absolutely!


Providence – for Knox Bunting

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There is no coincidence in Providence. No accident in the movement of God’s hand on a life. No matter the unexplained circumstances, when we give our lives over to Him, God will provide for our needs in ways we cannot fathom. As His Word promises, He will protect and find favor in those who call to Him.

“But let all who take refuge in you be glad; let them ever sing for joy.
Spread your protection over them, that those who love your name may rejoice in you.
For surely, O Lord, you bless the righteous;
you surround them with your favor as a shield.”
Psalm 5: 11-12

He doesn’t promise a life of ease, free from grief. Hardship we will face, undoubtedly, in this world. But He does promise to have our backs, so to speak, to bring us into fullness when we look to His face.

The journey my family traveled for our third child was full of heartbreak and waiting. To say I developed patience would paint me in a better light than I deserve. I cried, begged, and whined to God on a regular basis. I questioned Him, asked guidance of friends and doctors, and worried selfishly. I only hope God’s record of my heart will find that, laced in the threads of my suffering, were faithful prayers for His promises. Our first child was conceived easily, but we needed to resort to IVF if we were to have additional children. Audrey is the result of our first cycle. Originally one of two embryos implanted in my womb, she alone remained strong and came to us as a healthy baby. We were fortunate to have two more embryos frozen in ice, frozen in time. When Audrey was two, we decided it was time to pursue having our third baby. After months of considerations, shots, and decisions that, indeed, we were ready, the baby was transferred to my womb. We were expectant and excited. However, it was not meant to be and the baby was lost to us. Our hearts were crushed. It took a full year to heal emotionally from that loss, to try IVF again, to be in a position of potentially losing our last remaining chance. But with friends and loved ones praying for our frozen embryo, we stepped out in faith. This time, I felt God’s presence as He pounded the shores of my heart with His words of affirmation.

My last pregnancy progressed easily. As always, I was nauseous and fought fatigue, but I was not to be deterred. Exhausting as it is, I love being pregnant. This time, we were surprised to discover we were expecting a baby boy. Friends with sons were thrilled for us; I was more wary of the unknown. His little room filled with supplies and hand-me-down clothing, piled on every surface as I tried to figure out how to prepare for a boy. Our two daughters had been born via C-section (the first in a terrifying ordeal, the other as a precaution against further trauma), so this baby was scheduled for the same. I made plans for him to arrive on his due date giving me time to enjoy spring break with my girls for two weeks before his arrival. But other plans were in store for us and, as usual, God makes all things work together for good.

Three weeks before he was due, I visited my OB for a check-up. The week prior, my amniotic fluid levels had tracked lower and needed to be monitored. What my doctor discovered now was a complete lack of fluid in the sac. Whether from the cough I had recently developed, the OB-approved cold medicine, my age, or something else altogether, the fluid designed to keep my baby alive was gone. I give great credit to my doctors; without their expertise and careful attention to detail, my story would be very different. My doctor calmly asked when I had last eaten, added eight hours to the time, and asked me to be at the hospital to deliver at that hour. No, no, I couldn’t deliver today. Who would watch my daughters? How could Frank be with both me and our girls? How could my preferred OB deliver if he was holding office hours? How, who, what, no way! But my doctor gently and firmly sent me home to pack. “You will deliver this baby today and I’ll see you at the hospital tomorrow.”

Three weeks early? Not on schedule?? I sent my family a frantic text to pray for us, for peace and calm, for direction with the girls, for safety, and for my anxiety. Though nine years had passed since my traumatic first delivery, I was no less terrified to experience another epidural. A last minute, late evening delivery while I suffered a deep cough did not set me up for an anxiety-free event. I called on friends who would pray and encourage me. One dear friend didn’t wait for me to realize I needed to ask for help. “I’m coming to get your girls, they’ll spend the night with us, and I’ll drive them to school. You don’t have to worry about a thing. Just get to the hospital. Now.” That last bit. Get to the hospital now, not later, was repeated by my experienced middle sister, a friend/labor & delivery nurse, a friend who had lost a baby late in pregnancy. With calm, confident voices, each woman spoke to us instructions we wouldn’t have known to follow. And so we went as soon as we could.

At the hospital, I was still reeling with the fact our baby was arriving today. I fidgeted with a new iPhone, trying to keep myself distracted, all the while asking for ice, Tylenol, anything to cut the fever that was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. Frank juggled his own anxiety, vigilant by my side, ready to be of service. My oldest sister had left home to drive four hours to be with us. My mother and father were stuck in Florida, on edge, waiting and praying. And from a state away, my middle sister walked and prayed me through my concerns. We were told we had to wait the full eight hours between my last meal (one slice of bread) and delivery to avoid complications. I felt trapped – I wanted this baby out where he would be safe, but I was terrified to be given anesthesia early. None the less, the doctors determined a safe enough period of time had passed. As the nurse wheeled me toward the OR, my sister arrived. I’ll never forget the moment. Her cold cheeks against my fevered face as she leaned to kiss me. Gratitude that she made it in time. Fear remembering the last time she waited outside an OR while I fell into darkness. She prayed for me and walked with me, and then we were gone.

The spinal epidural went as planned. Frank was wearing scrubs, sitting next to me. Delivery was calm with a doctor I had only met once, four years earlier during a routine check up. She was kind and proficient. As she pulled our baby from my womb, she gasped. The umbilical cord was tied in a complete knot. If I had not delivered today, our baby would have suffered words I cannot utter. If I had delivered vaginally, the cord would have tightened. It would have only been a matter of time before it cut off all sustenance to the baby. Except now that wasn’t a concern. He was out. Three weeks early, perfectly on time. Frank held his son, our strong, healthy son.

Months have passed and we have settled into a routine of sorts with three children. Not a day passes that I don’t look at that boy in wonder. That God would bring him to us through the fire of life. That we could experience deep loss and longing, yet be so filled by the presence of this little child. That we came so close to losing life, not once but twice, yet in that losing we gained a richness of faith. That disjointed consequences speak clearly of God’s presence in our lives. During the unplanned C-section with our first baby, I went into respiratory arrest and suffered trauma. Because of that, we opted for a trouble-free C-section delivery of our second child. Because we were unable to conceive again, we used IVF. Because it took so long, I was at an advanced maternal age, was considered high-risk, and monitored frequently. Thanks to that frequent monitoring, a potentially fatal problem was discovered before any damage was caused. After two C-sections, I was required to have a third cesarean and not attempt vaginal delivery. That C-section saved the life of our son, a child God formed in my womb. A child whose life God protected nine years before his birth. Sure, we can call all of this coincidence. Or, we can call it what it is: the hand of Providence.

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Knox Bunting Vorndran
March 8, 2016

Welcome Joy – for Audrey Eva

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The welcoming of our second baby was the least dramatic of the three, which fits her personality as a child. We three – my husband, daughter, and I – had longed for this baby for years. My pregnancy was smoother than the first with no complications. I left my job about two weeks before the scheduled C-section so I could spend time preparing for the baby and soak in the last days with my only child, Meredith, who turned 5 a week before her sister arrived. We hosted a big indoor pool party, I joined her preschool class on a bumpy hayride field trip, and I raced around town finishing errands, doing all the things I had not been able as a working mom.

The afternoon before delivery, my mother came to town to stay with Meredith and welcome her newest granddaughter. Frank worked late, so we three girls enjoyed dinner at our favorite restaurant. I don’t recall much about leaving Meredith the following morning, aside from a warm hug in the front yard. My anxiety was on high alert due to the complications during my first delivery. As we drove to the hospital, I glanced at Facebook to discover friends from all over were praying for us and sending good wishes. Even my life-long friend, Jenn, sent a message to say she had eloped and finally married the love of her life. What joy this day held! It felt like I had an army of supporters when we entered the OR prep space.

As I waited in triage, anxiety crept higher; I was terrified of anesthesia and potential complications. Hot tears formed in my eyes, unable to be contained. When the anesthesiologist introduced himself, he took the time to calmly allay my fears. It was clear we would be a team and get through this delivery together, alive. I walked back to the OR with Frank, my steady always at my side. The spinal epidural was safely administered and the procedure began. Although this was my second baby, it was the first time I experienced the birth of my child. My senses worked in overdrive, but a team of competent doctors and nurses confidently delivered our little peach-fuzzed baby girl into the room.

For a heart that thought it was full of love for my one child, I felt it melt in my chest at the sound of my second daughter’s first cry. My darling Audrey Eva. We wouldn’t settle on her name for a few hours, though I don’t know why; she has always been my Audrey. When Frank nestled our baby next to my cheek, I cried tears of gratitude, of love, of longing. Frank and I sat in the recovery room, alone with our new baby, so blissful to be awake, free of danger, and enjoying the first minutes of our daughter’s life together.

As we got to know this baby over the next days, weeks, months, my mother added Joy to her name just as Audrey added joy to our home and to everyone she met. Her middle name she shares with Frank’s mother (pronounced in Polish as Eh-vah) and her first name is a derivative of his grandmother’s name, Audrea. Both women I have known to be strong, courageous, deeply loyal to their families, and extremely resourceful. So different from me, yet so beautiful of heart and rich in legacy for their tiny namesake. Now almost 5 years old, Audrey continues to delight everyone she meets. She is kind, nurturing, and bubbly. She was, without a doubt, worth the wait. When we welcomed our baby bundle that day, we opened our hearts and home to welcome a fullness of God’s Joy.

Asleep – for Meredith Marguerite

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I was asleep when my first child was born. I awoke hours later surprised to discover I was still alive and that my family had already met my baby with her perfect nose.

She was due April 7, just after Easter. My pregnancy had been difficult with a heavy business travel schedule and severe morning sickness, yet I relished in every minute of it. Those last few weeks were especially precious to me, knowing the private intimacy with my baby would soon end as she entered the world to meet grandparents and cousins so expectant for her arrival. Her name was to be Meredith Marguerite, for my loving and deeply spiritual mother and fraternal grandmother. Once my due date came and passed, we tried all the old wives tales to encourage our baby to this side of life. She wasn’t budging.

On Monday, April 16, 2007, my husband and I watched the news as terror unfolded at our shared alma mater, in a peaceful town where we had met a decade prior. A student walked into a classroom building at Virginia Tech and killed 31 students and professors. Any innocence left in our world was shattered that day. We were grief-stricken, but had only hours to process the tragedy; in the wee hours of the morning, I went into labor. We collected our belongings and headed to the hospital. The morning sickness that had plagued my pregnancy didn’t quit even then; we had to stop along the drive as nausea took over again. To this day, I pass that intersection with a familiar sense of emotional turmoil.

At the hospital, all went as planned. I was admitted to the labor and delivery ward, seen by a nurse from time to time, and mostly left to labor through the day. What I didn’t know, wouldn’t learn until weeks later, was that I was given a dose of Pitocin, the drug used to progress labor. What I did know was that my contractions suddenly became very intense. I had hoped to labor as long as possible without the intervention of drugs, but that desire was quickly eclipsed by searing pain. I requested an epidural, not knowing it would be the first of three in the next few hours. Each injection was administered in my spine and was intended to lessen the pressure on the lower half of my body. But, something went wrong, leaving only my left side numb. I was given a bolus, a boost of the epidural, and told to lay on my right side with the hopes gravity would encourage the medicine to relieve both sides. It didn’t work. So, a second epidural was administered, followed by a second bolus. Finally, the chief of anesthesiology was called in to administer the third epidural; with help of a third boost, this one worked to numb both of my legs. Finally, the OB was able to monitor our baby; with the prolonged labor, her heart rate was dropping for unexplained reasons. When were given the recommendation to proceed with a C-section, we agreed our only goal was to deliver our baby safely.

It was then a third anesthesiologist introduced himself. Randy would be taking over during my surgery. I kissed my husband goodbye for a moment and was wheeled to the OR. My parents, mother-in-law, and sisters waited expectantly just outside the delivery room while Frank put on scrubs to accompany me for the delivery. Inside the OR, I waited on the table as preparations were made around me. Within minutes, I felt a deep pressure on my chest. The newly administered epidural, the fourth dose of numbing medication, was working too well. Before I could speak, I discovered with horror I could not breathe. I tried to get the attention of anyone in the room. Randy realized I was in distress, handed the nurse an oxygen mask, and instructed her, “Put this on her; she is only having a panic attack.” When the mask was in place, I could feel the air brushing past my nose and mouth, but not entering my lungs. I knew then I was in deep trouble. I was suffocating, unable to communicate, and in the care of a doctor who wasn’t paying attention. Willing but unable to make my lips form the words “Intubate me,” I dug my nails into the nurse’s hand and swung my arms franticly until I knocked over a tray. It was the racket that caught the attention of another nurse. “Leslie? Leslie?!” I heard her yell, “What’s going on?!” It was at about this time my body succumbed to respiratory arrest. The last thought to enter my mind was one of surrender and despair. “I am finally going to have my baby girl, but I’m going to die before I meet her.”

Some hours later, I began to wake. My family was waiting for me. “Just wait until you see her perfect nose,” they whispered tearfully before my eyes were even open. As I returned to full consciousness, I was aware we had made it. My baby girl and I had survived after all!

The next few days brought torrents of conflicting emotions for both Frank and me. We were, of course, overjoyed with our precious little bundle, our Meredith Marguerite. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I sat in the hospital bed and undressed her carefully so I could gaze on the completeness of the perfect, tiny human I had made. We were grateful I had come through the ordeal alive, though shocked we even had to recognize survival as a victory. We were heartbroken for the tragedy at our alma mater. As the weeks and months passed, I would have to face the lasting scars left behind from PTSD – bouts of anger, resentment, ragged nerves. But it was in the hours shortly after her birth I began to grapple with the guilt. My immediate response in panic had been self-centered. Rather than cry out to God to save my life and that of my baby, I had felt despair at losing my life with her. I became ashamed for my lack of faith. Yet each time I closed my eyes during those days of recovery, the words of Psalm 23 were present in my mind. “The Lord is my Shepherd … Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil … Thou art with me … Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me.” As I contemplated over the recent events and the steadfastness of the words, I realized I was repeating something I had heard when I was unconscious.

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.”
Psalm 23 (KJV)

When I had fallen into respiratory arrest, Code Blue was called. Doctors and nurses raced past my waiting husband and family, into the OR. The chief of anesthesiology was among the first; he immediately removed the epidural line and put me under general anesthesia so my baby could be quickly delivered safely. While I remained unconscious, my family prayed fervently just outside the room, begging and pleading with God to be present in the room, to save my life and that of my baby. It was during this time the Holy Spirit spoke words of life over me, filled my mind and heart with reassurance that even in the face of death, I had no evil to fear as God walked with me. He has made His presence known to me several times in my life since. So thin is the veil between this life and Him, I have felt Jesus close to me, heard Him speaking to me. The guilt and shame I felt have been replaced with praise and gratitude; His presence was with me when, even in my weakness, I neglected to call out to Him. When I hovered near death, He never left me. Daily, together with my family, I awake into new life with Him.

“For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
your works are wonderful, I know that full well.
My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place,
when I was woven together in the depths of the earth.
Your eyes saw my unformed body;
all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.
How precious to me are your thoughts, God! How vast is the sum of them!
Were I to count them, they would outnumber the grains of sand—
when I awake, I am still with you.”
Psalm 139: 13-18