God Keeps His Promises: my testimony of faith

I have been a believer since I was a very young child, was raised in a loosely Christian household. My family was somewhat dysfunctional, and largely knew just enough scripture to use as a proverbial stick beat you with, but we did attend church a few times a year and like I say, I did believe in God.

Around the time I turned 14, I had the misfortune of walking in on a conversation between our church pastor at the time and a couple other women, and they were discussing how scripture could be used to support adultery. One of the women was actively involved in an affair, and the pastor was telling her she had nothing to worry about and hadn’t done anything wrong. My own family was freshly destroyed out of my father’s infidelity, and my practical, teenage self was disgusted with the hypocrisy. I walked away from church, vowing to follow God and no one and nothing else from that point forward. Sadly, my story is not that unusual, and many people go so far as turning their back on God Himself in the wake of such situations. Thankfully, I did not.

Fast forward almost 15 years; I was out of college and married with a steady job. My agnostic borderline athiest husband out of the blue asked if we could start going to church. We were a pair of introverts and largely community-less; we had attended a friend’s daughter’s funeral and had been shocked into silence by the amount of community support they had. My husband wondered if church might be how we may gain some interpersonal connection. I was skeptical. I flat-out told him that I didn’t have high hopes for the church crowd, but that if he wanted to go, I’d support him and go with him. So we went.

And I was surprised: everyone seemed genuine and sincere in ways I never saw in my childhood church. My heart began to thaw...

In September of 2012, I became pregnant. It was a total surprise as we had not been planning for any children, and we dove in head first. I had the most BEAUTIFUL pregnancy. Virtually no morning sickness, no aches, no complications. It was perfect. Our church family threw us a baby shower that next May and every moment my husband and I were about beside ourselves with excitement to meet our son, Michael.

June 11th rolled around, and I found myself in labor. Things progressed quickly, and we made it to the hospital a few scant hours before he was born. I had wanted a natural birth, and my body seemed built for the task.

Partway through, the nurses grew concerned. Michael wasn’t handling my labor as well as he could have been, but it was not an emergency. My own birth had been an emergency cesarean, and as I’m only here today through the quick efforts of my mother’s doctors, I asked them about my son: do we need to do surgery? Don’t hesitate if we do.

“Michael is okay. He is still within the normal range, but we are going to keep a close eye on him, just in case.”

And then I hit the phase of labor called ‘transition.’ As soon as I gave the first push, his heart rate bottomed out. It came back up immediately, but it was now an emergency and they tried to assist me, but the vacuum failed. I knew I could do it, though, and he was born in less than 8 minutes. Faster than they could have wheeled me down the hall to the operating room, let alone prepped me for surgery. And besides, he was too low for that to work anyway.

He came out and mewled like a cat. And I thought we were safe, that we’d made it....

The medical team worked tirelessly for the next 34 minutes to keep Michael alive, but they couldn’t keep his heart rate up and keep him breathing at the same time. At my urging, my husband ran with the medical team to the ICU, so Michael didn't have to be alone. They finished cleaning me up and wheeled me in shortly after, but it was too late.

There is no greater humiliation, no greater kick to the emotional gut than that of recovering in a busy maternity ward with the happy cries and noises of other babies and not having your own to hold. Of being discharged a couple days later and having to walk that long hallway out to the car with an empty carseat, empty arms. I died, inside.

For months, I wavered on the cusp of suicide. I couldn’t bring myself to sing in church, I could barely function at work.... And despite all the tests, all the investigations, no one could tell us why we had lost our son.

That September, my best friend from childhood asked me to come be with her when she gave birth to her third daughter. She was like my sister, and I wholeheartedly agreed. The little girl arrived safe and sound, and I didn’t leave the hospital until very late. And I’m driving home, and there’s this river next to the highway. There was no radio reception to distract me, and I started sobbing, and talking to God. “Why?” I asked. “I know You know best, but I’m dying here without a reason, and I see no purpose in living. I’ll put my car in this river right now because I can’t keep living like this.”

And He answered.

I felt the heavy weight of a hand on my shoulder and a voice in my ear as clearly as if I had someone sitting in the passenger seat: “I needed him now, Heather. Not later.” And this incredible sense of peace filled me. The radio came in suddenly, startling in its clarity, a Christian radio song about “I’ll never leave you, this road is hard, but we’ll make it together, you and I.” (I’ve never been able to track down the song.) Even though it was 2am when I finally got home, I wasn’t drowsy. I felt like I was on fire in the best of ways. A new lease on life. Absolution.

I conceived my second son that next January. And is too often the case, the medical community is not very kind to women who have lost children and still want more (you become a statistic to be “managed,” and less of a human being). It was very isolating. Few people understand pregnancy loss, and in our American culture, there is even less support for grief. I struggled with nightmares, flashbacks of Michael’s delivery, and fear every moment, waking or sleeping during the next nine months. My therapist diagnosed me with PTSD.

During the last trimester, I had begun listening exclusively to Christian radio, and on my drive to my appointments, I would pray to God. And it was incredible — I would pray, and the songs would answer the questions I had asked. It gave me hope. One such song was “Glorious Unfolding” by Stephen Curtis Chapman. Any time I expressed doubt about making it through, that song came on the radio. At every moment, it felt like God kept telling me Wait and see! I Am doing Good Works and All will be Well.

My story as a Christian really started the morning after delivering my second son. I had stayed awake as long as possible fearing his birth was a dream, but eventually drifted off with him sleeping on my chest in the recovery room. I woke some hours later, looked down and... he wasn’t moving. I started to panic, thinking I had dreamed it all and here I was, cradling another dead child when HE MOVED. Took the tiniest, sleepiest, sweetest little breath and snuggled back against my chest. And my heart broke wide open. In that moment, I told God, ”whatever You want from me, I’m Yours.” 💕

Since then, my husband and I have both been baptised, we have welcomed another son into our arms, and God has led us on adventures too amazing and bizarre to really fathom. Being a musician, I have devoted myself to worship and music ministry, in the hopes that others will be blessed and catch a glimpse of our amazing Father as well.

God is REAL. And He is so very, very GOOD.

Whatever you’re going through: HE will keep His promises. It will be a glorious unfolding. ❤️