The Hands of Others
I remember seeing the deer leap in front of the car. It was very close, if I didn’t react, we would surely hit it. Then I remember frantically trying to regain control of the vehicle as the tires screeched back and forth across the highway. After that I can only vaguely recall the sickening sounds of crunching and scraping metal.
Our car rolled four times before it stopped. My six-year-old daughter Bethany had been thrown from the vehicle and was badly injured. I was injured too – I had a large gash on my head, and I couldn’t move my hand. Amazingly, my sister, and Stacy, my four-year-old daughter seemed to be OK.
Things were happening fast though – the doctors were asking permission to airlift Bethany to Denver for immediate treatment.
“By herself?!” The thought momentarily flashed through my mind. “Yes, if that’s what you think we should do.” I answered aloud. It felt like a dream. Everything was so unreal.
“And we’re sending you to Denver too, but we’ll put you in an ambulance.” The doctor told me.
“OK.” What else could I say? I was not in control of the situation by any stretch of the imagination.
Only six months earlier I had related to the other members of my Bible study group that my greatest fear was that something would happen to my children, and I wouldn’t be present to help them. Now here I was, injured and unable to help even myself, while one precious daughter had severe injuries and was being whisked hundreds of miles away, and my baby girl was being rocked and comforted by a stranger in another room.
As the paramedics moved me into the ambulance, my sister was being examined for injuries; and my husband, who was already en route to be with us, would arrive to find us already gone.
Much of that night remains as fragmented memory in my mind, but I recall vividly the long ambulance ride. Except for the paramedics sitting in the front, I was alone, but I didn’t feel that way. I had been so certain that I’d feel panic-stricken about being separated from my children in their time of great need, but instead, I was strangely at peace. There’s no rhyme or reason to the peace I felt, I can only say that at that moment Jesus was present with me, as he was with each of my daughters in our apparent aloneness, and it brought me great peace.
Many hands comforted my children, while my own hand was held together with pins. Others sat through the night next to my daughter in her hospital bed, while I lay on a different floor in a hospital bed of my own. My children were not suddenly abandoned when I was unable to be there. God was in control, and he was taking care of them as he has always promised he would.
Through this horrendous experience God taught me about fear, and about my need to control. He taught me how to trust him. He taught me to let go of the reigns and let him be God – after all – he’s much better at it than I am.
God used the hands of others to bring about miraculous healing to body, soul, and spirit for all of us. We still carry a few scars, but they are scars that remind us of his unfailing love and faithfulness.
My Father showed me that he loves my children more than I do, and I learned that they couldn’t possibly be in better hands.
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Beautifully told and wonderously true. What a testimony and heart-warming story. Thanks for the blessing. Yours in His name, ladybug Karen