What began as a simple trip to the emergency room became a desperate journey through emergency surgery, sepsis, dialysis, intensive care, and ultimately, a miracle ONLY God could perform. We thought Dad had food poisoning.
Like many families, we expected medicine, fluids, and maybe a night of rest before life returned to normal. Instead, doctors discovered sepsis caused by a severely diseased gallbladder. Within hours, our world shifted from inconvenience to crisis. The surgeon’s words still echo in my mind: Without surgery, Dad would not live to see the next sunrise.
Even as the surgical team prepared, another voice entered the room. The anesthesiologist urgently warned my mother against proceeding, convinced the operation itself would kill him. In one moment we were standing between two impossible choices: a surgery that might take his life, or no surgery that certainly would. Uncertainty filled the room. But so did prayer.
In the middle of confusion and medical urgency, peace settled over our family. Not denial. Not blind optimism. Peace. The kind ONLY God can give when circumstances offer none. Together, we prayed and made the decision to move forward. The surgery saved Dad’s life, but the battle was far from over.
Sepsis had already spread through Dad’s body like a skilled assassin. His kidneys failed, and emergency dialysis became necessary. Suddenly, our family entered unfamiliar territory filled with machines, alarms, medical terminology, and long nights that seemed to stretch endlessly. Fifteen days in ICU felt like riding a storm no one could control.
At times, hope seemed distant—hovering just out of reach—but never completely gone. Minute by minute, reports changed. One moment there was improvement; the next brought another setback. Twice, our family was called in because medical staff believed the end was near. Tears flowed freely as doctors prepared us for goodbye. But even there, surrounded by monitors, grim reports, and impossible odds, something deeper held us steady. Faith. Not loud faith. Not performative faith. Just a quiet, stubborn confidence that God still had the final word.
During those long days and nights, one song became our anthem: “Way Maker.” We clung to the words,
Way maker, miracle worker, promise keeper
Light in the darkness
My God, that is who You are.
When fear tried to overwhelm us, those lyrics reminded us that even when we could not see God moving, He was still working.
Another phrase also became a lifeline for our family: “This is your now, not your forever.”
Hospitals often become places where families hear devastating conclusions. Charts, numbers, scans, and statistics tell one story. But throughout those long days, we believed Heaven was telling another. We prayed when we were exhausted. We believed when we had no visible reason to believe. And slowly, the tide began to turn.
The man who had hovered near death began improving. The patient once at risk of coding was eventually moved from ICU to rehabilitation. Day by day, Dad worked to regain strength and mobility. Small victories became celebrations—sitting up, standing, taking steps. Then came the moment we once feared we would never see: Dad walked back into his home. Surely, we thought, this was the miracle. But God was not finished writing the story.
At first, the nephrologist was accommodating of our faith. But as the weeks passed, it became clear he was simply tolerating our hope while expecting the inevitable outcome. “Mr. Brooks, you will be on dialysis for the rest of your life.” Those words landed heavy.
Three times a week, dialysis drained what little strength Dad had left. Hours connected to machines stole energy, freedom, and dignity. August turned into September, then October. Then November, December, and January. Some appointments brought slight improvements and short-lived celebrations. Other visits ended with silent tears in parking lots and whispered prayers on the drive home. At times, hope felt reduced to the thinnest thread imaginable. But we still believed.
Around the world, people prayed. Churches called out Dad’s name during services. Friends and family organized prayer chains. Special prayer requests circulated week after week. We were not fighting alone. An army of believers covered my dad in prayer around the clock.
January arrived, bringing a new year and steady numbers. Yet even then, when we asked about ending dialysis and removing the port from Dad’s chest, we were met with a look of pity from the doctor—as though faith itself was foolish. Nevertheless, in February, Dad walked out of the surgeon’s office after having the dialysis port removed. There were tears again, but this time they were tears of joy. That tiny sliver of hope had carried us farther than fear ever could. We had not only prayed for a miracle—we had spoken life before we ever saw the evidence. We believed God was able to do what medicine could not explain.
For the next three years, Dad lived without dialysis. No port. No treatments three times a week. No four-to-six-hour sessions connected to a machine. God had performed a miracle! This testimony is not written against doctors, nurses, or dialysis. In fact, we remain deeply grateful for every medical professional who cared for my father during the darkest moments of our lives. For many people, dialysis itself becomes part of God’s healing process and provision. But this—life without dialysis—was the story God chose to write for our family.
We give God all the glory for every miracle He worked throughout this entire journey. From the operating room to the ICU, from rehabilitation to restored kidneys, His hand carried us every step of the way. No matter how impossible the situation may appear, never let go of what God has promised. Whether the miracle seems big or small, whether the answer comes in days, months, or years, God still performs miracles today. No circumstance is too broken. No diagnosis is too final. No situation is beyond His reach. To this day, we continue to give God ALL the glory because nothing is impossible with Him (Luke 1:37)!
