By Allie King
@alliehking

On a crisp April morning, my almost-four-year-old son, Noah, and I scatter wildflower seeds in a barren corner of our backyard. He’s enthralled by the idea of watching something grow from a seed, and I’m enthralled by the idea of having vases of wildflowers gracing the kitchen counters. But as summer wears on, only a few green shoots emerge from the dirt. Week after week, I watch and I water—intent on teaching my son what it means to hope—but the frail green stems seem stagnant. Our okra plants climb and the cucumber plants trail, but the few flower stems either die or stay small, short, and unremarkable.

My husband, Drew, jokes about my watering the raw, barren dirt. If anything, I keep the weeds alive, he insists. Eventually, I stop watering the couple of green stems that remain. I turn my attention to the juicy tomato plants and the vibrant pink-and-purple hydrangea I planted on my birthday—the plants actually bearing fruit.

***

Four months later on a sunny Sunday evening, Drew and I serve Noah and our two-year-old daughter, Lila, dinner on the patio, then head inside to make our own plates. Noah’s had a fever for the past two days, but a dose of Advil has perked him up enough to eat. I’m topping my Caesar salad with croutons when I see him, hanging limp out the side of his chair, his hair brushing the ground. My plate drops from my hands, and I rush out the back door.

At the sight of his face, I scream for help. His lips are the color of a fresh bruise. His eyes are rolled back. His cheeks are gray. I grasp his face in my hands and feel his jaw muscles clamped shut, immovable. He’s completely unresponsive. My husband is beside me a moment later, untangling our son’s body from the chair. Noah’s entire body convulses in his arms.

“Call 911!” Drew screams, the blood gone from his face.

I frantically punch the numbers into my phone and begin shouting information as soon as the operator answers. “Our son isn’t breathing! Our four-year-old son!” I cry. My eyes catch on Noah’s stiff, blue lips. “Help! Please! Get an ambulance here, now!”

My body shakes uncontrollably. I’m still holding the phone, but I scream out to heaven now: “God, help! HELP! Save him! Someone, HELP!”

***

Just days earlier, I stood barefoot at our kitchen sink, loading oatmeal and cereal bowls into the dishwasher and chipping away at the previous night’s dinner still clinging to my glass dish. My hands worked, and my eyes bounced between crusty spaghetti sauce and my backyard, where Noah and Lila played. Suddenly, Noah raced across our patio and bounded through the back door, breathless.

“Mommy! Mommy! Look!” he cried. His extended hands held a single yellow wildflower, its leggy stem still bearing several leaves. “We got one!” he exclaimed.

My excitement met his—not just because we’d actually done it—grown a wildflower—but because my sweet boy was brimming with joy over this single yellow bloom, as if its appearance were truly a miracle. It reminded me of one of my favorite authors and how she sees God in the appearance of ordinary ladybugs. I smiled to myself. I want to believe in miracles, I thought, and I want to be a person who looks for God in even the tiniest of ways.

***

Sirens ring in the distance. We make it to the front yard just as two large red trucks round the corner. The firemen meet us at the curb, unloading equipment and questions at a rapid-fire pace. I kneel on the grass, holding my son’s body in my arms. I answer their questions, though my voice only comes out in shrill, broken sobs. The firemen attach an oxygen mask to his face and clip a pulse oximeter on his finger. 

I alternate pleading to my son and pleading to God. “Noah, come back to us, baby,” I cry. “God, save him!” I beg.

Silence screams in my ears while we wait for the pulse oximeter to read, the ambulance to arrive, the oxygen to help. Firefighters circle around me, and I look up at their scared, round eyes. “What’s happening? Where’s the ambulance? Is he dying?” I half-shout and half-cry, but they stare at him, at me, silently.

Suddenly, the ambulance screeches to a halt in front of us. Noah regains consciousness and begins to shriek as several men load his body onto a stretcher and into the vehicle. The EMT repeatedly tries and fails to insert an IV into his arm while he screams in pain, begging for me to help him.

Finally, after my firstborn’s blood has soaked the stretcher and spilled onto the ambulance floor, I see rich red fluid fill the small, clear tube, and the ambulance jolts into drive.

***

We spend one agonizing night in the hospital, where Noah undergoes test after test after test, each traumatizing him a little worse than the last. His cries echo in the halls of the hospital, and mine echo in the space between me and God.

One doctor after another enters our room with results. Clear. Clear. Clear. All the tests are clear. This is the best news we could receive, and yet a hint of uncertainty hangs in the air as each doctor leaves. They tell us his seizure was likely caused by his fever although they can’t say for sure. He could have another one although they can’t say for sure. When it might or might not be, they just can’t say for sure.

Although I am desperate for the comfort of our home, my mind swirls with anxiety when they discharge us.

When we get home, my heart and shoulders are heavy, but my eyes immediately catch on the lone yellow wildflower in a vase on my kitchen counter. Warmth swells in my chest. The flower’s tall stem proudly protrudes above the clutter on the counter, and its vibrant yellow leaves stretch toward the afternoon sun. Tears prick the corners of my eyes. Everything in me wants to doubt and despair, but this single yellow bloom begs me to reconsider hope.

***

 Three months later, Noah comes down with another fever. We take him to the pediatrician, where he’s prescribed an antibiotic for strep throat. I set up a makeshift bed in the living room and give him a bell to ring in case I step out of earshot. Hours pass, and our son seems to be battling strep throat like a typical four-year-old—with his eyes superglued to Ryder and his team of pups.

It’s 6 p.m. when I notice something peculiar. Noah’s neck seems to be swollen, cocked to one side. I wonder if maybe he has a crick in it from too much screen time, but when I gently push on it, he screams out in pain. I call the pediatrician, then two relatives who are doctors. All three advise us to take Noah to the emergency room.

I am calm, almost robotic, when I tell Drew we need to pack overnight bags. But when I shut myself in our bathroom to gather my toiletries, my numb disbelief morphs into empty rage. I lower my face into the sink and scream into the running water: No! God, how could you? Where are you?

After a midnight CT scan shows an abscess in Noah’s throat, he’s admitted to the hospital. Machines pump IV antibiotics and steroids through his veins, and we’re left in another dark, cold hospital room to wait and see if he’ll need surgery. All night, I lie beside his fragile, restless body and beg God, again, to protect my son. 

Sometime the following afternoon, after we’ve calmed multiple meltdowns and begged multiple doctors for answers they don’t yet have, the dam inside me breaks open.

 The automatic doors jerk open, and I step outside into the frigid, bleak November day. I look around, desperate for sunshine or green grass or anything that feels like hope. But my eyes are met with gray concrete and gray skies. I collapse onto a bench and weep.

Where are you God? I silently beg. Have you forgotten me, forgotten us? Oh, Lord, I need you. Where are you?

When I sit up, something catches my eye. All by itself, perched on the concrete pillar directly in front of the bench—a tiny red ladybug.

***

A month after Noah is released from the hospital, narrowly escaping surgery, he brings home a flier from preschool. This year, our Christmas mission project is the local children’s hospital! the paper announces. An idea immediately comes to my mind, and I ask Noah if he would like to deliver toys to kids in the hospital, just like he was. He says yes, so I ask the preschool director for permission. I tell her I want to help my son sort through the trauma of the past six months. I want him to see the hospital in the light of day—to know it can be a place of hope.

On the last day of preschool before Christmas break, Noah and I fill my trunk with large boxes of donated toys. A kind, grateful hospital employee meets us at the emergency room entrance and loads the toys onto giant carts. She thanks us and turns around to walk inside the automatic glass doors. That’s when I notice Noah looking to the left of the doors, to the bench where I once begged for God to show me his face, to the gray concrete pillar where he once answered. On the bench sits a woman, presumably around my age, with tears streaming down her cheeks. Her eyes meet mine, and I feel the weight of the world settle into the cracks of my heart. I look down at Noah’s hand in mine, and I walk toward her.

“I’m so sorry you’re here,” I say almost involuntarily, “but I pray you know God is with you.” She nods, and in her eyes, I see she’s listening, really listening. “He’s right here with you, he hasn’t forgotten you, and he loves you,” I say, and I climb back into my car. 

“Thank you,” she mouths as I shut my car door, tears now streaming down my own cheeks. 

God could have sent her a wildflower. He could have sent her a ladybug. But he didn’t. He sent her me.

***

My son is almost five now. He’s always first to hear a siren’s wail in the distance, and he’s always first to ask for prayer for whoever might be riding in that ambulance. It turns out he’s teaching me how to notice, how to hope, and maybe more than anything else, he’s teaching me how to believe in miracles.

Guest post written by Allie King. Allie lives in East Tennessee with her husband and two children. She’s passionate about baked goods and mental health, belly laughs and the way God moves. When she’s not writing, you’ll find her walking to the library with her little ones or lost in deep conversation with a friend. Find more of her words on Substack or Instagram.

Photo by Jennifer Floyd.