In 1979 I gave birth to a beautiful son who only stayed with us for six months.
One night, I went to see why he hadn’t woken for his meal. My son had died. I was devastated and filled with guilt, despair, anger. I’d not been feeling well and had fallen asleep on the couch, not waking him for his evening meal. When I woke a couple of hours later and couldn’t hear him crying, I knew that something was wrong. Walking into that room was the worst thing. It had a cold feeling about it and Desi was not moving.
I was later to find out it was cot death. I couldn’t understand why it happened - he was my first child, what had I done wrong?
Those questions were answered some years later, but the point to my story at this time is that we were broke, we had little money and we didn’t know how we were going to pay for his funeral. We didn’t tell anyone, not even our families, but we did wonder how.
I prayed about it, as I do anytime I’m in need. Some family members gave us money to help us (remember though, we hadn’t told them). Unknown to us, our neighbours took up a collection throughout the whole street and then came to give it to us. They were all devastated with our news and wanted to offer their help in whatever way they could.
The sum of monies given us equalled exactly the quotation we’d been given for the cost of the funeral. We couldn’t believe it! When we arrived at the funeral parlour to pay the bill, it seemed that the quotation was slightly out - by $5.00. That was the exact amount I had in my purse! God had provided for us to the exact dollar!
