by Amy Newmark
“Hello.”
“I’m sorry to be calling so late at night, you don’t know me, and, uh, we’ve never met,” he stuttered. Then he started asking me if I was the same person who wrote a column in a certain magazine (I was), and the same person who had written a particular short story in a religious magazine (I was), and after those clarifying questions, he was content that I was the person he was intending to call.
Then he started apologizing again, and I wearied of it and cut him off: “Is there something I can help you with?”
“No, I’m not calling for help. I’m calling because a few nights ago I was praying and I felt like I was supposed to call you and tell you something. I mean, I’m not a super spiritual guy, but I was praying, and it was like God just spoke to me and told me to call you and give you a message, and I was like . . . oh, man, I don’t know him, and he’ll think I’m crazy . . . .”
I yawned in the dark, and realized I had answered a psycho’s call. My wife shuffled on the other side of the bed, and keeping my voice low, I said, “Well, you’ve got me, why don’t you just cut to the chase and tell me whatever it is you think you’re supposed to tell me?”
He spit it out rapidly. “I’m so embarrassed now that I’ve actually called you. But I’m telling you, I have been unable to sleep for the past two nights, tossing and turning and thinking that God is telling me to call you, and I lay down tonight, four hours ago, and I couldn’t sleep until I called you, and now that I have . . . oh, my, I can’t apologize enough . . . .”
“Stop with the apologizing!” I grunted.
He didn’t stop. “It’s only two words,” he exclaimed, “and I really feel foolish that I’ve wakened you . . . .”
“Just stop,” I said. “Just get it off your mind, and let’s go back to bed.”
“Okay. It’s just two words: God hears.”
I didn’t respond.
The silence rattled him. “I’m sorry, that’s it. Does that mean anything to you?”
I still didn’t respond, and he starting apologizing again.
I stopped him. “Trust me, it means something. You go back to bed now, and I’m sure you’ll be able to sleep.”
I hung up on the stranger, slipped out of bed, and tiptoed back down the hallway and into the living room. I slipped between the sofa and the coffee table and lay down, my face buried in the fibers of the carpet, arms spread. It was important to me to try to duplicate the exact place and position where I had been only an hour earlier. When I was sure I was in the same spot where I had told God I did not think He was listening, I began apologizing.
“How could I think that You were not listening?” I cried.
I woke in the morning feeling fresh and energized. Two words became and remain my mantra for every prayer: God hears.
~Danny Carpenter
Divinely Choreographed
All the seeming “coincidences” . . .were actually God catching me in his arms.
~Shirley Corder
I don’t know what made me go into the doctor’s office one afternoon when I noticed a dent and a bruise on my left breast. After all, I had just been to see him three weeks earlier and left with a clean bill of health. He had told me my mammograms were normal, he felt nothing suspicious, and he would see me again next year. I thanked him and went back to a temporary teaching assignment I had accepted just a few days earlier—an assignment I hesitated to accept at first until something deep down inside me said, “Do it.”
And now, here I was sitting on an exam table, facing a young surgeon I had never met before. He said that the bruise looked like the result of a sharp blow, that I must have hit myself very hard on something.
“But I don’t remember hitting myself anywhere,” I said, bewildered. “Am I to worry about this?”
“As the wall of the breast heals, it will go back to normal,” he replied. “However, I do feel a thickness in the breast.”
“A thickness?” I repeated, echoing his words. “It wasn’t there three weeks ago.”
He said he wanted to do a biopsy just to be sure it was nothing more than a bruise.
“Biopsy?” I felt chills run up and down my spine.
“To err on the side of caution,” he assured me.
I went home that afternoon confused and a little scared. Where could I have possibly bumped myself? And not remembered?
The next day I went shopping with my daughter. I was sitting outside the fitting room while she was trying on clothes when I suddenly recalled everything. Since this was Saturday, I had to wait until Monday to call my surgeon.
But before I called him I went back to the school I had been teaching at and retraced the route I had taken to the teacher’s room that morning. The playground. The gate. The pain.
“Yes!” I said, as soon as I heard his voice. “I did hit myself! I was hurrying onto the playground and hit myself on the steel handle of the entry gate.”
“Did you hit yourself in the spot of the bruise?” he asked.
“Yes. In the exact spot.”
A sense of relief washed over me, certain that I would not have to have a biopsy now. “So what do you think the thickness was?”
“It was probably the scar tissue that formed from the bruise where you hit yourself. But,” he continued, “I would still like to go ahead with the biopsy to be certain there’s nothing there.”
That following Thursday I had the biopsy. The surgeon found a lump in the scar tissue that had formed from the bruise. As I opened the gate, I had hit myself in the exact spot where a malignant tumor had been growing for about two years.
That night, I sat my children down on the couch and told them I had breast cancer. I’ll never forget the looks on their faces. Confusion. Fear. Concern. Their expressions are etched in my soul forever.
My surgery was scheduled for Good Friday, the Friday before Easter Sunday, the only day that the operating room had an opening. And it definitely turned out to be a good Friday. The surgery revealed that all my lymph nodes were clean, as well as the marginal tissue around the tumor. My cancer had not spread.
“What are the chances of that?” I asked myself over and over again, thinking about the gate hitting me in the exact spot of the tumor.
A sharp blow? A bruise? A thickness? These words kept haunting me. I was the only one on the playground that morning. I merely opened a gate. And collided with it — big time.
While all this was taking place, I wasn’t aware that I was walking through a miracle — until I reached the other side of it. And then I suddenly realized that God had divinely choreographed everything.
It had been only three weeks since that initial visit to the doctor for my yearly physical when I got that call from an elementary school needing a teacher for a class of thirty lively sixth-graders. I could have gone the entire year before my cancer was uncovered. Perhaps then it would have been too late.
And maybe if I had remembered hitting myself on the gate at the time it actually happened, I would have realized where the bruise had come from and not have gone into the doctor’s office at all.
As I write this piece, it has been nineteen years since that malignant tumor was removed from my breast. Looking back, I’m glad I went ahead and accepted that temporary teaching assignment, listening to the voice inside me that said, “Do it.”
I take each day and live it as best I can, making each morning a brand-new beginning — a personal promise of new life.
New beginnings. New life. Nineteen years and counting . . .
God had truly opened a gate to a miracle.
~Lola Di Giulio De Maci
Mother’s Day Surprise
Love is not singular except in syllable.
~Marvin Taylor
“I’m going for a bike ride and I’ll be back in about three hours,” my husband shouted as he cycled out of the driveway.
“Be careful,” I warned, “it’s windy!”
Mark—my husband of thirty-two years—was training for a triathlon
and it didn’t matter what the conditions were; he was going to keep to his schedule.
I remained on the porch until Mark was out of sight and then as soon as I closed the front door, tears formed in my eyes. It was Mother’s Day 2008 and my husband didn’t remember. There were no surprises: no card, no flowers, no chocolates, and no brunch — just a wave goodbye.
Training took up all of Mark’s free time until there was nothing left for us. Triathlons and marathons had replaced all that was left of our failing marriage.
Instead of feeling sorry for myself, I got in the car and drove to Hershey, Pennsylvania — the sweetest place on earth — for some hot chocolate. There was a shopping mall right off Chocolate Avenue with a bakery and coffee shop. It wasn’t exactly Mother’s Day brunch, but it was better than staying home.
Hershey was only twenty minutes from our house, but it took much longer than usual because it was so windy. I had to grip the wheel hard or the car would veer off the road. Then it hit me. If I was having a hard time keeping the car on the road, how was Mark managing with his bike? A chill ran up my spine. I couldn’t ignore the feeling that something terrible was going to happen. My mind raced as I contemplated all the possibilities and nearly missed the Hershey exit. The parking lot for the bakery was nearly empty—another painful reminder that other families were celebrating Mother’s Day.
When I stepped inside the bakery, there were all kinds of surprises waiting on the pastry shelf. I picked out an iced lemon pound cake and ordered a large hot chocolate with whipping cream. The server asked if I wanted peppermint sprinkles on top and I nodded yes.
I sat near the window facing the parking lot and in between bites of pound cake and sips of hot chocolate I had a queasy feeling. I couldn’t explain it—just a strange sensation that something wasn’t right.
Just when I was about to take another bite of pound cake, my cell phone rang. I fumbled around in my purse and realized it was Mark’s number. Relief washed over me.
“Hi honey, where are you?” I prompted.
“Are you Connie Pombo?” asked an unfamiliar voice.
“Yes, and who are you?” I questioned.
“I don’t want to upset you, but your husband has been in an accident,” he explained with an unnerving calm. “I’m a paramedic and we’re on our way to Hershey Medical Center. We should be there in about ten minutes. Your husband had your number pre-programmed into his cell phone in case of any emergency.”
“What kind of accident?” I asked. I could hear sirens in the background and some mumbling, but no one was talking to me! And then my cell phone went dead; I had forgotten to recharge it. I scooped up my purse, grabbed my keys and ran to the car—leaving a trail of hot chocolate in my wake.
The next thing I knew I was at the Hershey Medical Center entrance looking for a parking space. I swerved into the first spot I could find and found myself at the reception desk. My heart was pounding hard and I was out of breath, but I forced out the words, “Mark Pombo—he’s coming by ambulance . . .”
I glanced at the receptionist’s name badge—Sandy—and tried to be more polite. “Hi Sandy, I got a call from the paramedics and they said they’re bringing my husband to the Emergency Room. Can you please help me?”
She gave me a knowing smile and asked me to take a seat in the waiting room while she made some phone calls. A few minutes later, she announced, “A clergy person will be right with you.”
“What?” I asked in pure disbelief.
“I’m sorry, but it’s hospital protocol whenever someone has been in a serious accident,” she said.
I heard the words, but they didn’t make sense. I slumped down in my chair and cupped my hands over my face as the tears came. When I looked up, I saw a name badge that said Clergy attached to a young man about the age of my older son.
As soon as he introduced himself, the receptionist announced that I could go back to Trauma Room #3. I followed the clergyman to the trauma room and wasn’t prepared for what I saw. Mark was hooked up to monitors and IVs while the nurses explained in medical terms that my husband had shattered his hip and femur. They were prepping him for surgery and I needed to sign some release forms. The surgeon explained that without immediate intervention, my husband would never walk again. After signing the papers, I was ushered to the waiting room while they finished prepping Mark for surgery.
Three hours passed and there was still no word about Mark. I was about to check with the receptionist when I heard my name being called. “The surgeon would like to speak with you,” the receptionist said. “Just pick up the phone by the door—where the red light is blinking.”
“Hello, this is Mark’s wife,” I said in quivering voice.
“Your husband is doing well,” the surgeon replied. “We had to place a rod in his femur and screws in his hip, but with time and physical therapy he’ll be able to walk again.”
Click.
That was it?
Later the surgeon came out to speak with me in person and explained that if it weren’t for the two trauma nurses who were cycling that morning and found my husband within the “golden hour” that he might not have been so fortunate.
“What two nurses?” I asked.
The surgeon shook his head in disbelief. “You mean you didn’t know?” he prompted. “Your husband was found by two off-duty trauma nurses. They treated your husband on the scene where his bike hit a pothole and threw him twenty feet. They stabilized him and called for an ambulance.”
Two miracles happened that day. I had no idea my husband was cycling in the Hershey area, yet I was just minutes from Hershey Medical Center when I received the call. And the two nurses who were cycling that morning weren’t supposed to be on that route; they took a shortcut!
On May 11, 2014—six years after my husband’s accident—Mark surprised me on Mother’s Day with bikes for both of us. The Mother’s Day card attached to mine read: “Please forgive me for all the wasted years of leaving you behind. I want to pedal with you for the rest of my life!”
~Connie K. Pombo
From Attitude to Gratitude
Sometimes the strength of motherhood is greater than natural laws.
~Barbara Kingsolver
The day my mother saved me from being killed, or at the very least, from severe injury, I was awakened from a peaceful sleep by the incessant ringing of the phone. I glanced at the clock. It was not yet eight. Who had the audacity to call so early? The phone display said “Unknown Name, Unknown Number.”
To be roused abruptly and by a call I did not invite or want always makes me cranky. Then on my nightstand I noticed Larry’s note. “Forgot. Have early tee time. Later. Love you, L.”
Oh, great! It was Saturday morning and I had planned on a leisurely breakfast with my husband. “But I guess his precious golf was more important,” I mused grumpily.
Breakfast? In the kitchen I found his other note: “We need milk. Ours is sour.” I don’t ask for much in the morning except for my cup of coffee with two sugars and milk—fresh milk.
Grabbing five dollars, I grudgingly threw on my yoga pants and top. There was no need for underwear, I decided. After all, I was only going two blocks away. I drove to the 7-Eleven. I had almost reached the store when a policeman stopped me.
I wasn’t wearing a seatbelt and had left my driver’s license on the dresser. His professional disinterest added to my foul mood and it was evident he didn’t like my attitude either. He gave me a ticket.
At home, I took my coffee, a blanket for my legs and my latest novel out to the back patio.
It had rained overnight. But now it was a perfect spring day. The flowers on the Bradford pear tree created a stunning canopy of snowy white.
The yard was alive with energetic squirrels and the birds provided a sweet symphony of background music. The pleasing sight caused me to question why I was in such bad humor when I was, in fact, so fortunate.
I had good health, a loving husband, a family and friends. Oh, sure, it w
ould have been nice to be ten years younger and have a million dollars, but all things considered, I led a charmed life.
I thought of the officer who had ticketed me. “At least he didn’t do a strip search,” I spoke out loud, laughing as usual, at my own joke.
I stretched out leisurely on the wooden bench, surrounded by the beauty of nature. My thoughts turned to the bench on which I reclined—my bench. Larry had sanded and stained it a red brick color to match our concrete patio floor.
I smiled as I recalled when we had first discussed marriage. He had good-naturedly warned me that he was not a “honey-do” kind of guy, but his cooperation and eagerness to help over time belied those words.
I must have dozed off. The shrill ringing woke me. Jumping up with a start, I heard my mother shout, “Answer the phone.”
I ignored her, until her voice penetrated my ears again, this time with more urgency.
“Eva! Answer it!”
“Can’t you pick it up, Mother?” I called out, but she didn’t reply.
The phone was on the window counter across the yard. Untangling myself from the blanket, I rushed towards it. A startled little squirrel had been caught up in the blanket and had scampered away in fright.
The phone’s display showed those annoying words, “Unknown Name, Unknown Number.” My pet peeve struck again.
I’ll never know what prompted me to pick up the receiver instead of pressing the “off” key.
The caller seemed hesitant, wanting to talk despite having dialed the wrong number. For some reason it didn’t frustrate me like it normally would have. Very politely, I took the time to explain that there was no one in our home by that name. As I was about to hang up there was a deafening thud behind me.
The beautiful Bradford pear tree had uprooted and its enormous trunk had crashed onto the bench where my head had been resting only a minute before. I gazed with horror at the demolished bench, gasping as I realized what had almost happened.
When I had recovered from the shock, I reflected on the miracle that my mother’s voice could rouse me from such a deep sleep, sparing me from being injured—or worse—from possible death. What was even more astounding is that it happened on the one-year anniversary of her death!