Even If He Hadn't Survived.
Finding God's presence when the outcome is uncertain. A reflection developed during studies in Cultural, Spiritual, and Ethical Dimensions of Holistic Care.
It was a cool autumn day in September of 2021 when my wife and I got the call. Lexi's dad, once burly, broad-shouldered, and tough from many years of experience working in mechanics was being admitted to the hospital with severe complications of Covid-19. Lexi's mother, through tears, explained that she had come home early from work on a whim, only to find Jim sitting slumped on the couch, unresponsive and very audibly gasping for air. When paramedics arrived mere minutes later and loaded him onto a stretcher, his O2 sat registered at 52%… anything below 80% is cause for an emergency. His face was clammy, cold to touch, and resembled porcelain instead of flesh; pale, with subtle translucence. Lexi’s mother felt a tinge of dread knowing that if she had worked her normal hours that day, Jim would have very likely died.
Thus, our family's greatest medical emergency began.
Let me begin by clarifying that I am not particularly attuned to spiritual phenomena, especially in the sense that I often find it difficult to accept the authenticity of miracles and supernatural occurrences, even when they appear before me. By nature, I am a skeptic, inclined to question that which cannot be logically or empirically explained. This is not to suggest that I reject the authority of Scripture or the numerous miracles recorded within its pages; rather, such experiences have been largely absent from my own life. Perhaps this is because I tend to engage with theology and God primarily through an intellectual lens, drawing upon scholarly resources, sound doctrine, and reasoned argument to form spiritual conclusions. I do not claim that this approach is inherently correct; rather, I acknowledge it as a reflection of my own limitations and recognize the areas in which God may still need to soften my heart and open my eyes.
Jim was taken first to Pulmonary Acute, a unit that had been remodeled into a Covid-19 ICU during the height of the new “Delta” variant. I at the time was also a staff Chaplain at this very same institution, so I knew firsthand the devastating aftermath of the Delta variant and how it at worst proved fatal and at best left the victim with life-altering debilitations, most of whom would require supplemental oxygen for the rest of their lives. I had sat with hundreds of people in isolated rooms, separated from their families as I read last rites or provided bedside prayers through an astronaut-like PAPR machine. I wept alongside nurses and doctors who struggled to cope with the extensive loss of life and burnout that followed, some eventually becoming complacent and numb to the tragedy that awaited them whenever they punched the time clock.
Within hours of arriving in Pulmonary Acute, Jim began to rapidly decline, inevitably requiring him to be placed on the waiting list to transition to the formal Adult Intensive Care Unit that was a couple floors above. It didn’t take long for a bed to free up. We met with the physician overseeing Jim’s care, and ultimately his life. “I suppose he has around a 6% chance of coming out of here alive,” he told us, as he showed scans of Jim’s lungs which revealed a double collapse and pending confirmation of fibrosis. “If you have any arrangements to make, I’d encourage you to begin making those plans soon.”
The doctor was matter-of-fact about it, relaying the information as though it were a food order at a fast-food restaurant. It was obvious that Jim wasn’t the first or the last patient who would have a similar prognosis. We soon sat face to face with the charge nurse of the floor and the Director of Palliative Care, who graciously began to provide emotional support to our family as we pondered the demise of Jim. The nurse and palliative care team were saints, attuned to our needs and actually shared tears with us as we grieved. We had much to grieve: my wife and I had just had our first child and grieved that she would never grow up to know her grandpa. My wife would lose her father who she had been so close with, and her mom would lose her husband of more than 25 years; losing him all too soon at the young age of 49 years old.
Yet, as the three of us gathered around the table after hospital visitation hours to write an obituary we hoped we would never have to use, we felt a peculiar peace. It wasn’t that we expected God to heal him, nor that we had some false hope that transcended the care of the hospital staff. We were realistic. We knew he very, very likely wasn’t going to make it. And we had to live with that. We cried, we held hands, and we looked at pictures that could go on the front page. A tune caught our attention from the kitchen where a little Bluetooth speaker sat playing music on shuffle most hours of the day. It was a song by Michael W. Smith titled, “Sing Again”1. The lyrics go like this:
“This lonely heart will sing again
These barren lungs will breathe again
Through suffering we're stronger
In the palm of His hand
Like a beacon in the night
Hope illuminates the sky
Reaching for each other
And as we carry on
We are keepers of the light”
It was as though God was in the room with us that evening. Weeping as we wept and reminding us of His presence with us, weaving hope into the story. We realized the peace we had wasn’t in the guarantee of Jim’s life, but in the guarantee that no matter what happened to Jim, God was still good. We could trust God, even if Jim left our care.
The next day, we saw a news article of a man who had received a very similar prognosis as Jim and somehow survived, albeit with some minor health flaws. In fact, this man who had survived had just ran a half marathon! Intrigued and looking for answers, we decided to try and look up this family and connect with them. Fortunately, with the advent of social media, it didn’t take long.
The wife of the man told us about a doctor who worked at the hospital we were at who had a different approach to the virus, using alternative research methods to promote healing through a heavy emphasis on the body’s electrolytes and nurturing the immune system. Perhaps even more convenient, this doctor had just begun her two-week rotation in the area. After getting a referral, she graciously agreed to care for Jim to the best of her abilities. This isn’t to say that Jim’s current doctor was doing anything wrong or that this specific doctor had the miracle cure for Covid-19. At the time, every institution was losing patients daily, including this doctor that just so happened to save this man.
But holding onto the meager 6% chance of survival, we were willing to try anything.
And in ways I still can’t explain, Jim very slowly began to improve. After three weeks in the ICU where he was minimally responsive, often laying prone in bed, he began to show signs of progress, requiring less and less supplemental oxygen. His brain scans showed activity, more activity than he had demonstrated in weeks since arriving.
His barren lungs began to breathe again.
Even so, he had a long way to go. Once he was able to be extubated, he had a very long road of physical therapy, including the removal of a tracheostomy that had been placed to assist with his breathing. While once not able to even lift a finger, within two months he was able to stand assisted and even was able to hold our daughter for the very first time. Then, just as we approached Christmas, he was discharged.
Today, he lives a perfectly normal life, free from any health complications other than a few scars from medical interventions in the ICU. Fibrosis was miraculously ruled out. He wears no supplemental oxygen. He is able to do what he loves and feels as though he has a new lease on life.
I’m careful not to suggest that Jim’s healing was directly caused by our prayers or by some divine intervention that singled him out. That couldn’t be further from the truth. There were good people — thousands of people that I met in the ICU who tragically died, including the father of a friend of mine who had used the very doctor that had saved Jim’s life. In many ways, adjusting back to life was riddled with survival guilt. Why Jim? Why not the multitudes of good, God-fearing men and women who did nothing to die of this travesty? Why our family?
I suppose we will never know.
I’ve always wrestled with the idea of present-day miracles.
I’m no better than Thomas in the Bible, who needed to see and touch the wounds of the resurrected Jesus to believe He had truly risen. And to this day, I don’t understand why we were given the happy ending while so many others faced unbearable loss.
But here’s the truth I can’t shake: even if Jim hadn’t survived, God’s presence was unmistakable. It was with us — tangible, steady, and faithful. That experience affirmed a deep theological truth in me: that even when we don’t feel Him, God is at work doing far more than we can comprehend.
I write this as a testimony; not only to the reality of God’s presence in the darkest places, but also to the extraordinary care of those who serve on the frontlines of healthcare. We encountered remarkable nurses, therapists, and physicians who not only treated Jim but ministered to us. Through them, we witnessed the compassionate heart of Jesus at work, even in our lowest moments.
I’m so thankful Jim is still here. I’m so thankful our children get to know their grandpa and we still get to walk through life with him at our side. But even more so, I’m so thankful that God showed up powerfully to us in ways that I had never seen before, revealing that whether or not the healing comes physically, it comes eternally.
And that His presence never leaves us.
Smith, Michael W. Sing Again. Rocketown Records, 2021.
Man! I love your writing Devon, this was such an encouraging read for me today even given the subject matter. I really appreciate your heart.