Miracles

"Are you there, God? It's me again. I'm sure you're tired of hearing from me, but I desperately need you." I glance at the overcast sky and sink my dangling toes into the cool water. From the edge of the pier, I watch the boats head back to the docks to escape the impending storm. I wrap my thin jacket tighter around my shoulders as the wind begins to howl. The skies have darkened into a muted black, matching my mood.

Every day for eight weeks, I have sat on this pier and prayed and pleaded, waiting for a response from God. But apparently, God hasn't heard me, is too busy to answer, or just doesn't care. I'm inclined to believe the latter, but am hopeful that it is the second. I realize the world is a mess and my problem pales in comparison to famine, genocide, and war, but to me, it is monumental and has become too much for me to bear. I need God's guidance or, better yet, a miracle.

Time has become paramount; I need an answer or a sign soon. I have until seven pm to give my final decision to the medical team at Saint Rita's Hospital.

As I begin to pray, thunder rolls in the distance and lightning streaks across the darkened sky. I pull my feet out of the water and cross my legs. A light rain begins to fall, and I turn my face upward and stare at the stormy sky, waiting to hear the voice of God. The rain transitions into a torrential downpour. The only noise is the wind and rain, which devours the sound of my screams. I scream until I become hoarse and so emotionally drained that I curl into a ball.

The pounding of the rain against my body eases, and the skies lighten. Exhausted and completely humbled, I scoot onto my knees and beg God to listen. I bare my aching heart and soul, then I become silent and just listen. I listen for that still small voice. Minutes turn into hours. I sit motionless as another round of rain falls, adding insult to my already wounded soul. Defeated, I stand and slowly walk to my car.

As I slip behind the wheel and drive along the two-lane highway, horrific images flash before my eyes. I see a white pickup truck swerving over the yellow line, then retreating back to its lane. Seconds later, blinding headlights and the awful sound of crunching metal. I blink away the images and focus on the road ahead.

My stomach knots as I maneuver around the last curve before entering the city limits. No matter how hard I try, I can't stop my body from reacting. It remembers the searing pain as shards of glass puncture my face before the airbag inflates. It remembers the sharp pangs that erupt with each twist as the paramedics untangle my body from the crumpled car.

I pull into the visitor's lot. It is 6:50 pm. The urge to vomit is so strong, but I manage to push down the bile at the back of my throat. I take several deep breaths and exit the car. My legs nearly give out. I grab the door handle to steady myself. After a few more breaths, I force myself to walk across the parking lot to the entrance.

Once inside the lobby, the smell assaults my nostrils. I spy a cushioned bench and sit down. I have always hated the nauseating smell of hospitals. To me, it smells like a mixture of antiseptic, urine, and death.

A man dressed in olive green overalls, pushing a broom, passes by and then turns back. "Miss, are you alright? You're as white as a ghost."

"I'm fine," I stammer. "Just not a fan of hospitals," I say, forcing a smile.

"Are you sure? I'd be glad to find a nurse to check on you."

"That's okay. Really, I'm fine."

He smiles politely, then pushes his broom forward, looking back at me twice before turning down the hallway.

I find the strength to cross the lobby to the elevators. The door opens, and I hurry inside, hoping the doors shut before anyone else enters. No one does, and I release a sigh of relief as I push the button to the sixth floor.

Leaning against the back wall, I try to prepare myself for what I am about to do. The elevator rises four floors, then stops. The door opens, and a young couple enters without saying a word.

I remember the fourth floor well after spending an agonizing week as a patient while recovering from the accident.

The elevator stops at the sixth floor, and the young couple exits. I try to move, but my legs feel like lead. My heart races, and I break into a cold sweat. I can't do this. I can't be here—I need to escape. As I reach my arm out to hit the lobby button, the door opens, and a nurse I recognize all too well stares at me.

"Mrs. Stephens, are you okay?"

I manage to shake my head no before my legs give way and I tumble to the floor.

She yells for help, and soon three nurses are dragging me to a chair by the nurses' station. The nurses, who all know why I am there, give me looks of sympathy and pity as I sip some water from a paper cup.

After a few minutes, they help me to my feet and escort me down the hall I have walked up and down a thousand times. As we enter the room, I realize how I must look. My hair is still dripping from the rain, and my clothes are so saturated that they are glued to my body. My eyes must be red and swollen, considering I have spent the last several hours crying uncontrollably. But no one mentions my appearance as I join my husband, who is surrounded by the NICU medical team.

He glances at me with red-rimmed eyes and slips his hand into mine. After a short discussion around the incubator about how nothing else can be done, the chaplain says a prayer. I don't know why he is praying. The time for a miracle is over. Tonight, with broken hearts, we agree to unplug the machine that has been keeping our precious child breathing.

As the room grows quiet, I gaze down at my innocent baby's face, then up at the chaplain, who is softly praying. Maybe the chaplain's prayer is for me and my husband to help us deal with our grief and hate. There hasn't been a day that has passed when I haven't wished that the drunken man who smashed into my car was dead. While he was sleeping off his hangover, I was having surgery in an attempt to save my son's life. When the truck collided with the car, the impact caused the umbilical cord to detach, depriving our baby of oxygen and ultimately killing him. To forgive the man will take more than a prayer; it will take a miracle.