When our family took a trip to Mexico for vacation, our youngest son unexpectantly became sick. My husband Brent—who’s a pediatrician and famously low key—came and found me where I was napping on the beach and said we needed to take Ezra to the hospital and that he may need surgery. I was completely caught off guard. This was our last day of vacation and we were flying home the next day. Ezra had seemed a little off but I had no idea his condition had reached this level.
We got a taxi to the hospital and after what felt like forever—if you’ve spent time in the waiting room with a sick loved one you know what that’s like—we got to see a doctor. He examined Ezra and said he needed an ultrasound. We went back to the waiting room and the receptionist called Brent to the desk and said there was no radiologist on duty so we’d have to come back another time. By now, Ezra had thrown up everything he’d ever eaten and was completely miserable. The doctor who’d examined Ezra earlier walked by, and Brent asked him about the ultrasound. He said he’d arrange everything and came back to tell us that a driver had been sent to bring the radiologist to the hospital.
Long story short, Ezra was admitted and as I held his face in my hands while they tried unsuccessfully about a dozen times to find a vein to start the IV, he looked up in my eyes through his own tears and said, “Mom, ask the church to pray.” I asked him to tell me who to text (on my phone which was about to die) and he gave me three names. Those women and their families prayed for Ezra. Then they wheeled him into the operating room, still awake.
Brent and I took a taxi back to our hotel to tell our big kids what was going on. Brent was going to shower and go back to the hospital for the night. (They only allowed one parent to stay, and it was decided that the one who went to medical school was the best choice), and I prepared our big kids to fly back without us the next day since they were saying Ezra would need to stay 2-3 nights. Before Brent went back to the hospital, the five of us huddled together to pray. Brent tried to start the prayer but his voice failed. He couldn’t get a word out. Instead, our daughter Ella prayed for our little boy who was scared and worried.
Brent taxied to the airport. And after a mostly sleepless night, the next morning, they told Ezra he could leave after all. Brent and Ezra made it to the airport just in time for our flight.
As we were stopped for a layover, Ezra and I discussed the way we saw God show up during that scary 24-hour period. We retold the story to each other…How the doctor fought for us and the radiologist was available on his day off. How the patient rep who worked at the hospital was Canadian so she could speak English and guide us through what was going on. We talked about the airport employee, appearing out of nowhere with a wheelchair and helping us quickly move through all of the airport hurdles. We talked about Julissa, the woman who worked at our hotel who we had befriended at the beginning of the week who became my contact as I was trying to possibly lengthen our stay if we had had to remain in Mexico, but she turned out to be a fervent prayer warrior and her little church prayed for us. All of God’s provisions laid out like a road map as we named them.
It’s our privilege and obligation to stop and remember God’s deliverance. We need to list these moments and remind each other that God was there all along. The Jews understood this better than just about anyone. God commanded that they have festivals and feasts for this very reason—to remember that God sees the Big Picture but He’s also in the little details. And every time we stop and remember what He’s done, we’re compelled to thank Him and worship Him.