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| An Angel from God | | Print | |
| Written by jalana walsh |
| Monday, 01 December 2008 09:02 |
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A true story Some names changed by Dr. Kluane Spake"An Angel From God “The baby will not live” they told us. Then the hopeless nightmare began. Our little island had just barely recovered from an 8.3 earthquake, and now there was an even bigger shake in our lives. Both the natural and the spiritual realm were exhibiting that everything that can be shaken will be shaken. “Your granddaughter has hydrocephalus -- you know, water on the brain.” Dr. Jean, the Gynecologist, was a friend and a member of my church. She reported the results of the ultra sound without a glimpse of expectancy. “She probably won’t live,” her halting words struck me with bone deep fear. As a Pastor, I struggled without answers for my unmarried daughter and her soon to be born child. Distraught, we secretly prayed that God would be merciful. Dyanna, my nine month pregnant daughter, had been hospitalized for eight days with raging fevers from a kidney infection. After a routine ultrasound, the hospital urgently called us. Dyanna, weakened from being on IV with no food or water, knew something was wrong. She was telling her boyfriend, Frank, “The technician was trying to act nonchalant but I saw tears in his eyes. Something’s wrong. Why won’t they tell us?”Because of expected hideous deformities, I was to be in the operating room to determine if Dyanna should ever see the child. “We’ll keep her awake, then if you want Dyanna to see the child, we’ll let her hold it” she assured me. The church staggered. I was a preacher of faith and my grandchild had no brain. We blindly confessed the Word. Pain fixed within my heart and confusion knocked at the door. Entering the hospital the next morning, we found Dyanna grabbing the bed frame in hard labor. She had called the nurses several times, but they barely understood English. Everything halted into slow motion as I ran to the nurse station knowing that natural delivering of this child was mortally dangerous. “Get the Dr. Here NOW! Hurry up!” “You can’t come in,” she shouted while shoving on her surgical cap. Then, Dr. Jean slammed through the double doors of pushing the gurney at a run. I strained to peer through the crack of the doors. Dyanna had comforted herself knowing I’d be with her. Now, she was alone. The surgeons actually removed another patient from the operating table and put Dyanna on -- to take the baby fast. My husband paced the halls – moving his hands to trace the cracks in the walls… left from the recent earthquake. He was worried about Dyanna, and the medical bills, because his job had ended a year ago. I propped myself upright and prayed while a disturbed and deranged young woman from church arrived, demanding counseling, “You love this baby more than me!” she railed. After she left, she continuously called the nurses station and sent notes to her friends that we were abusing her. Vance, a faithful minister, sat beside me. The church was spiraling downward. After all, we were a faith church and I had a sick and unwed daughter. Finally, a scrub nurse came through the double doors and called out, “Spake.” We stared in disbelief at this beautiful black haired child. Here was our precious black haired granddaughter, birthed out of wedlock, innocent and beloved of God. “What about her head -- it looks okay. Does she have hydrocephalus? Look at this baby. She’s georgeous.” The nurse scurried to the nursery without answering. Then, some man rushed past calling out over his shoulder, “Won’t know anything without a CAT scan.” He never said his name nor asked for ours. Someone explained he was the pediatrician. He busily passed, leaving us bewildered. Dr. Jean had another emergency following, so we didn’t hear about Dyanna either. Vance held my hand. Seven hours later, Dyanna got upset. “I want to see my baby!
Is she a monster and nobody’s telling me?” The nurses gave dull empty looks. I beat on the nursery door, “Let her see her child, no matter what.” Hours later, they brought the baby in without any instructions. “Isn’t she pretty?” Vance exclaimed as her black eyes danced with rainbow reflections of window light. I remembered the evening about a month ago, when they were picking names. I was outside by the carport when the Lord whispered, “Angelynn shall be like an Angel to you.” That is really strange... I tried to dismiss it. Returning into the living room, I mentioned “Angelynn.” They seemed to not hear, and continued their lists.-- But this first evening while cradling her little one, Dyanna peacefully looked at me and softly whispered, “Her name is Angelynn, we’ll call her Angel.” We held that child and prayed that her purpose on earth would be fulfilled. Later that evening, the guy we now knew to be the pediatrician poked his head through the doorway saying, “Yep it’s a hydro. Some live a few years, usually with bad seizures. I’ll call and send her to Hawaii in a day or so.” He walked off. “Wait,” I protested, chasing him down the hall. “What do you mean? If there’s treatment available, we’ll go now.” Dismissing me, he mumbled, “There’s plenty of time. They’ll probably shunt to relieve pressure.” Well, we didn’t know what shunt was, but it seemed that building pressure could cause further irreparable damage. Following him, I continued, “We want the baby to go tomorrow.” “It takes five days to get the paperwork.” “We’ll get it sooner!” I asserted. The next day was endless paperwork, and then the father left with Angel for the eight hour flight to Honolulu. An ambulance met the plane to rush the now almost three day old baby away. I remained with Dyanna in Guam. She was still on IV, not having food nor water for nine days.Life blurred with skepticism. There were no right words. Roxanne had returned from vacation, being a friend and speaking the comfort we needed. Others came for quick visits, but Roxanne stayed, cared and cried. I was totally vulnerable, having come to the end of myself. We heard that some of our congregation had secretly decided that Angel’s certain death was God’s punishment for immorality. The Honolulu Hospital performed immediate surgery. Calls came across the ocean that Angel had survived. Dyanna and I arrived three days later and wandered the halls of babies looking for our special one. We raced over to the window, seeing Dyanna’s picture inside the incubator. “So she’d know her mommy’s face,” the dad explained as we stared at Angel’s half-shaved and bandaged head. I watched through tears as Dyanna sat in the white rocker holding the sleepy puffy eyed baby she hardly knew. The Sovereign God allowed us one more day with this child. The Staff wanted to talk with us. They told us that her entire brain cavity was filled with fluid. They had inserted a tube into the center of the head with a little pump that drained into her abdomen. The staff emphasized that when this pump valve didn’t come back up it must be replaced. “Come fast,” they warned us, “because pressure will be building. Come quickly!”Giving my concerns to the Lord, I told the ministerial staff of my decision to marry them. At the next meeting, Vance, my trusted young minister, angrily threw his resignation at me. “God’s dealing with me,” he caustically remarked as he exited our lives, without further explanation, never to be seen again. Again, the crucible tightened as I staggered in the spinning room. In the face of death my most trusted one left. I forced myself to get up in the mornings. Anguish. Where is honesty? Commitment? Covenant friendship? Vance left to minister at another church... he already had a better offer. I rushed home to embrace the infant -- her jet black hair on one side and tubes under bare scalp on the other. “Jesus help!” The wedding day came. It was uncanny knowing that I was officiating a pact that I had resisted so strongly. Words were carefully chosen. Angel was there. Everyone wanted to look at the baby but they knew to not touch her, because of infections. Dyanna never lost her gentle smile. I had lost mine. Her stature and grace were disarming as my husband walked her down the aisle to meet her chosen groom ... it was the hour. Dr. Jean didn’t come to the wedding, and never returned to church again. Again, I pressed into the Lord, almost unable to talk apart from preaching. My journal reads, “Arise out of deep darkness, oh Hope of God. Break the ravaging hold of heartache and disappointment. Lord, You’ve led me beside still waters, and made me lie down. I will lay here until You raise me up, delivered of my own opinions.” Heaven’s gates seemed jammed shut. Then, I had to correct a church member living in gross sin. His response was dead silence and a cold stare. Many left as he called the church roster telling how he had “finally seen the light.” My life’s work was forsaking me during my greatest need. I pretended to pull myself together and purposed to sacrifice joy... The spirit of Independence was rising. Out from secret meetings, came word of terrible prophecies about our doom. That following Sunday as I was leaving my office to preach the morning service to those remaining I bowed my head. I’m preaching on “Love…” and Lord this is really hard.” The Holy Spirit startled me by saying, “You know almost nothing about my love.” I came before the church that morning overcome with hearing that all too infrequent voice, “Today, I am going to preach about something God says I know almost nothing about!” Then, the worst thing happened; the pump on Angel’s head quit working. That’s the emergency we had been warned about. That very day Angel and I flew again to Hawaii. The neurosurgeons said, “Absolutely right, the pump is non-functional. Get the CAT scans and I’ll call you with the schedule for surgery later today. Angel cooed as the CAT scan passed her through the opening. She was living in the rest of God. I telephoned home and Dyanna and Frank borrowed money to fly over. Meanwhile, the baby and I found a hotel and waited for the Doctor’s call. “Angel,” I said, “do you know that you are inscribed in God’s hand?” She laughed. How do I learn such contentment? I reminded her how God had spoken her name in the laundry room, and she smiled again. Then calls came from church elders that Roxanne, the friend that had comforted me, and most of her friends and family were leaving the church. They said the music wasn’t their style. It was Gethsemane. The olive press was pressing, until nothing was left. More friends were gone... God, bring me past the love of people.
What is friendship? How can I transfer this passion to know God, and love one another? Prayer changed from words to a constant stream of awareness. Grieving darkness yielded to forceful peace that soothed the ravaging ache of the unknown. The Daystar emerged from the pit of despair as a beacon of hope. “Angel is an heir to the Spirit of Life. She is Mine,” says the Lord. A church couple vacationing in Hawaii came to the hotel to visit. We waited together for the doctor’s office to call. We had to go to surgery the next morning and we needed to know the times. Finally, after endless waiting, at 9:00 P.M., the phone rang. It was the neurosurgeon himself. Why is he calling, I wondered. This must be really bad news. He continued… “I’ve changed my mind,” the neurosurgeon said. “What?” “I’m not going to operate. After looking at the CAT Scan, I consulted two more neurosurgeons. The shunt can’t work in this baby because the ventricular (head) cavity has filled with brain cells. This child should live a normal life.” The receiver clicked. I sat stunned as my friends waited, “He changed his mind.” I said it over and over, letting it sink in. “God gave Angel a brain. She’ll be okay.” My natural love, no matter how intense, cannot hold people to the Gospel, nor to me. Love, even for the lost, must not generate from the soul (philleo) but from the Sprit within. Only that love remains. The morning cometh! We’ll not trust in the arm of the flesh. Behold we are become new. It‘s finished, the soul has died. We’re clad in scarlet, our feet are shod in peace. The spiritual earthquake is over. Joseph’s brothers said the dreamer was dead. But God raised Him up as a deliverer! We aren’t dead, no matter what they said. We’re raised up for the last days.
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