My seven-year-old son, Shane, made it through a four-hour operation to remove a brain tumor. “But we won’t know whether the tumor was malignant until tomorrow,” the doctor said.
That night I didn’t leave Shane’s bedside. Around midnight an intensive-care nurse suggested I go home to try to get some rest. “Here’s the phone number of the hospital,” she said, handing me a piece of paper. “You can call us anytime.”
I hated to leave, but I had been awake for more than 24 hours, so I went to my house, where I dozed fitfully. Somewhere around 6:00 A.M. I dialed the number the nurse had given me. When a female voice answered I identified myself as Shane’s mother. “How is he?” the woman asked.
I was puzzled. “Is this Children’s Memorial Hospital?” “Honey, this is no hospital,” the woman said. “We’re just a group of women who heard about your son and decided to keep a prayer chain going for him. My friends and I have been on our knees all night praying for that little boy and one of us just asked God to give us a sign that he had heard. Then you called. Praise the Lord.”
The tumor was benign and Shane made a miraculous recovery. I’ve tried to get back in touch with that woman: I’ve dialed every possible variation of the hospital’s number and never again heard her beautiful, velvety voice. But I’ll feel connected to her always.
