Urgent Prayer

Friday, 12:15 p.m. There wasn’t much time. That was clear.

The doctor assured me the woman in the critical-care-unit bed was my daughter. But she looked nothing like Marianne, her skin covered in purple blotches, her face bloated.

“Your daughter has probably been unconscious for twenty hours,” the doctor said. “I don’t have the expertise to diagnose her. I only know that if I can’t find someone to treat her soon…” His voice trailed off.

Already a half hour had passed since I’d gotten the call. A maintenance man had found Marianne collapsed in her apartment, her two-year-old son, Jalen, nearby.

Without putting the receiver down I’d phoned my sister Mary Jane. I wanted her to go to Marianne’s and get Jalen then pick up his brother, 10-year-old Levi, from school, who’d been staying with us. She needed to bring them to the hospital where my husband, Stanley, would watch them. And call my two sons. But first I needed her to…“Call the prayer team at church,” I said. “Marianne needs their help!”

Now, as the doctor’s words began to register, I wondered if Mary Jane had reached anyone. Would the prayers of a few people at a country church even matter? “Doctor,” I said, “I’m not giving up. This momma needs her baby.”

The doctor shook his head. “We’re calling other hospitals. But we don’t have much time.”

I stood by Marianne, holding her limp hand, searching for an eye blink, a finger twitch, any sign of life. Something had gone wrong with her circulation. Beyond that the doctor was at a loss.

“Can you hear me?” I whispered to my daughter. My heart cried out, Please, God. Don’t let my child die. Over and over I prayed, but felt little comfort.

The ventilator’s rattle seemed to grow louder. Was anyone else praying? God, keep her, make her whole. Each time I said the words I could feel the minutes passing.

1:00 p.m. Head bowed, I almost didn’t notice when Kay, a friend from church, slipped into the room.

“I got a message and came as soon as I could,” she said. “There’s ten of us down in the waiting room, praying and calling everyone we know. I need to get back. I just want you to know we’re here for you.”

She gave me a small white cloth blessed by a minister that another friend had brought by. I wove it through Marianne’s soft brown hair, then took her hand again and continued my own silent prayers.

God, help her. Keep her. Make her whole. God, help her… I pleaded, words tumbling over each other. I started massaging her arms and legs, hoping I could restore some circulation.