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My wife was in labor for over thirty-six
hours with the birth of our second child. Eventually, our daughter
was born, but the physician was apprehensive about her health.
He identified four diseases by name, explained that our daughter
was extremely weak, and said that she could be mentally retarded
because of the extended period that she was without oxygen. I
was hastily handed authorization papers to sign for her transfer
by ambulance to a specialized hospital in a nearby city. I looked
into the physician's face and could see his concern, for he knew
the perils of disease and the value of medical attention. From
his perspective, his recommendation was the best option; however,
I had seen evidence of Christian Science healing and knew God
to be the only real source of health. I silently asked myself,
'Where will she be loved the most?' Intuitively, I sensed that
I knew more about the power of God's love than the medical practitioners,
so
I refused to sign the order. I told the doctor that I wanted some
time to pray for the child. He was furious but gave me four hours
to attend to her needs, after which time he would examine the
infant again.
I carried our daughter into an empty birthing room, laid her in a cradle, and sat down beside her. I did not look at her or attend to her physically in any way. She was swaddled and silent. The next four hours were filled with prayer. I addressed every disease with its antidote - the truth of Christ. I declared that all the power of the universe was hers by reflection, that Mind could not be deprived of its full expression, and that there was no obstacle to Love. Near the end of my time with her, a hymn came to mind, and I began to sing. In part, it reads, "Weeping may endure for a night, But joy cometh in the morning" (Hymn 425). The word "joy" stood out to me as a powerful force for good. Because of all the threats surrounding this precious child, I wanted everyone to identify her with that positive title. She would be called Joy.
At the scheduled time, a nurse whisked Joy
away for reexamination. Soon, the physician returned to where
I was still sitting and told me that two of the diseases were
gone and that she was as strong as a horse. I thought that was
cause for rejoicing, but he would have none of it, again demanding
that I sign the transfer papers. I told him that I was going to
take the child home. He was not kind to me for that decision,
but I readily forgave him. More documents were prepared, releasing
the medical personnel from all responsibility for her care.
Within a week or two, the symptoms of the diseases had disappeared,
but there were still two disturbing issues: Joy's head was deformed,
and she was cross-eyed. I knew that a baby's head is soft and
that if distortion occurs during the birthing process, the head
reshapes itself, but Joy's head was not responding.
I reached out for some wisdom about how to address this situation.
I opened the Bible to the place where Jesus asked Martha, "Said
I not unto thee, that, if thou wouldest believe, thou shouldest
see the glory of God?" (John 11:40). I understood that there
was a requirement to believe, but somehow that seemed insufficient.
I asked, 'But what should I do?' I opened the Bible again, this
time to Matt 26:38, where I found Jesus' earnest appeal - "Watch
with me." I took this as both a literal as well as a spiritual
assignment. God was present, and I did not want to miss the event.
I lifted Joy out of her crib, placed her in the middle of my bed,
and knelt down to watch. I was expectant and earnest in my endeavor
to "behold the glory of God." Over a period of about
twenty minutes, I watched Joy's skull rebalance itself. I could
see it moving. It became perfectly symmetrical.
The belief of being cross-eyed lasted for several years but gradually yielded. It is so important to never let your guard down or accept deficiency as permanent just because a period of time has elapsed.
Joy graduated from high school with honors
and received a full scholarship to college. Needless to say, she
was not mentally retarded.
George Denninger ©
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