Miracle After Miracle: I Have Seen the Hand of God
Lately, I’ve been reflecting on how God is still in the business of working miracles. Yet, in the midst of life's grind—the worries, the fragility of relationships, the ache of loss—it’s easy to forget the miracles I’ve witnessed. But they are there. I have seen them. And even when my heart and mind feel crowded with everything else, I know He is still at work.
My whole life has been a series of miracles.
Like the time I sent out just five VHS tapes and somehow landed a full-ride scholarship to play Division 1 volleyball. I was athletically raw, from a broken home, a nobody—a needle in a haystack of athletes—yet God made a way.
Or the time my high school sweetheart (now my husband) got a call out of the blue, offering him a scholarship to play at the same university after they had already told him they weren’t even recruiting quarterbacks. This, after I had begged God to make a way for us if he was truly the one.
Then there was my first pregnancy, when my OBGYN scheduled me for a D&C because there was “no baby.” But deep in my bones, I knew otherwise- a certainty I've rarely felt since then. I ran out of that appointment as fast as I could trusting that God would knit this baby together, or my body, in her wisdom, would walk my heart through the process of loss. Nine months later, my sweet baby girl was born. She’s twenty-two now.
And I’ll never forget when my dear friend, Ali, had tumors on her liver. We prayed and prayed for healing. When the doctors went searching for something to biopsy, they found nothing. She just smiled and said, “Sorry, boys, my God has healed me.”
But miracles haven’t stopped there.
The grace and the goodness of God continues to break through.
February 18, 2024 – 9:30 PM
"Dad’s in the emergency room, Amber… it’s not good. He’s being life-flighted to Grand Junction and is unresponsive.”
My breath left me. My mind stopped computing. I resorted back to being the baby of the family—eyes up, heart quiet, looking to others.
My sister has always been the strong one, the one who keeps things together. And in that moment, she was strong for all of us. I hate that she had to be.
"Dad has gone into septic shock. Every system in his body is shutting down. He’s in respiratory distress because the medical team accidentally broke a piece of tubing off in his airways as they worked to intubate him."
Anger. Fear. Grief like a hot knife.
My dad was standing at death’s door, and I was seven hours away, curled up on the floor of my closet, powerless. All I could do was pray.
My family is tough. Resilient. Salt-of-the-earth, push-through-anything kind of people. I like to think I am too. But in that moment, I wasn’t. I was gutted. Frozen. Desperate for God.
Sobbing in the arms of my husband, I cried out the only prayer I could manage:
"God, please save my daddy."
Over and over, I whispered it. I didn’t feel the fire of faith. I didn’t feel strong. I just felt empty.
Still, I prayed.
Meanwhile, my sister and stepmom started their four-hour drive through the night to Grand Junction, hoping he’d still be alive when they got there. Around 1:00 am, somewhere near Moab, their tire blew out.
Miraculously, a tow truck happened to be in the area. They fixed the tire for free and sent them on their way. (I can just see the sparkle in God’s eye as He arranged that one.)
It was February in Colorado, and I had three mountain passes to cross before reaching the hospital. I decided to drive at first light. Sleep escaped us all, but somehow, we clung to the hope that morning would bring a reunion.
As I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, I whispered a quiet plea:
"Lord, I don’t want to see my daddy like this. He’s strong. He’s hearty. If there’s any way, please let me walk into that hospital room and see his blue eyes. I don’t think I can bear the sight of the tubes and machines. Please, Lord, let me see him smiling and alive."
As I prayed, I saw him in my mind—bright blue eyes, big smile, giving me a thumbs up.
It felt like a crazy thing to ask. But it was what my heart longed for.
Morning came, and we all made our way to the hospital.
I was forty-five minutes away when my sister called.
"You’re not going to believe this… but Dad’s not only alive, they just took him off the ventilator!"
The doctors were stunned. They called it a "remarkable recovery," something they had never seen before.
How. Could. This. Be?
I screeched into the hospital parking lot and ran to the ICU.
And there he was.
Big smile. Blue eyes. Thumbs up.
The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes? A blurry cross on the wall.
God’s grace. A miracle.
Over the next several hours, my dad steadily improved. The medical team, the hospital chaplain—they all gathered, in awe of what had happened.
"We’ve never seen anything like this."
Only God.
As we stood by his bedside, everything else in life felt small. This was what mattered.
It struck me, life is profoundly simple when it lays before you bare and stripped away. My dad had his life, his faith, his wife, and his daughters. Those are the things that were solid.
And with it all, he had a renewed passion to live wildly alive.
He was 69 years old.
That miracle not only gave us more time, it gave us so many more amazing memories.
Family camping trips. Holidays. Retirement—after serving 35 years (12,974 days) at the City of Cortez. Attending my daughter’s college graduation. Watching my son play minor league baseball. Teaching my youngest son to fish. Turning 70 in Costa Rica- deep sea fishing, zip-lining and bungee jumping. The birth of another great grandson. Golf, lots and lots of golf.
Miracle after miracle, I have seen the hand of God.
And I will never stop telling the stories.
