by Marilynn Chadwick
The next day, I checked into the hospital. The surgery, we were told, could last up to four hours. But forty-five minutes into the operation, the surgeon called my husband for an immediate consultation. “Had they found something awful and simply closed Marilynn back up?” He feared the worst.
Meanwhile, I awakened groggy in the recovery room, with a man in a white lab coat peering over me. He had striking red hair and a very kind voice. “You did really well in surgery,” he said gently, his face close to mine. “Your tubes are perfect,” he added. I especially remember the word he used—perfect. Deeply comforted, I dozed back off.
Down the hall, the surgeon is telling David that the six-inch incision and invasive surgery had revealed something quite unexpected. That my tubes were perfect! The doctor closed me up after a few minutes. The fallopian tubes, which had been scarred completely shut, were now perfectly normal. Not simply improved. Perfect! Absolutely no sign of scar tissue anywhere. David was waiting by my bedside as I came to. Before he could say a word, I whispered, “I’m healed, aren’t I?” I just knew it. I began inwardly rejoicing as he smiled.
Strangely, no one at the hospital remembered seeing a red-haired man in a white coat in the recovery room. But I know he was there. I asked numerous nurses and technicians, and they were equally certain. There was no sight of a red-haired man working in the recovery room, or anywhere else on the hospital floor.
I’ve come to believe the mysterious man with the kind voice was an angel, a messenger with good news from God. The Bible has lots to say about angels. As we’ve seen, the word angel means “messenger.” This certainly wouldn’t be the first time the Lord used an angel to deliver a message of hope!
During my six weeks of recovery following the abdominal surgery, I experienced an unexplainable peace and complete assurance. I almost felt like I was “expecting.” I even bought a cute blanket and portable baby bed at a garage sale. What’s more, I began to paint the nursery in anticipation of the baby I knew would come. The following month I learned I was finally pregnant! I tore out the page from my journal, which documented the healing prayer, and took it to our surgeon. He and his wife eventually began attending our church—their own faith encouraged by our miracle.
Almost exactly one year later, we went back to the same floor of that hospital. This time, we were on the maternity wing—where Bethany entered the world to the surprised joy of the same nurses who had cared for us during my surgery. The memory of my encounter with the red-haired angel in the recovery room is forever etched in my mind. I’ve saved my journal page—the one dated January 27, 1985, documenting the healing prayer. Now and then, I look at those hastily scribbled words. They remind me to trust him when things look hopeless—you never know when he may send us an angel with a message of hope!
Exactly forty-eight months from the start of my infertility journey, we conceived our Bethany. Three years later, we had our son David. And just shy of forty, I delivered Michael. We now have ten grandchildren and counting. Guess it goes to show that with God, nothing is impossible!