I woke up very early this morning glad to be alive on what is, my 65th birthday.
That’s 64 years and 9 months more and counting from the prognosis given me in June of 1956. Rushed into hospital, misdiagnosed, subjected to a botched attempt at fixing me which led to major surgery, my parents being told those dreaded words, “I’m sorry, there’s nothing more we can do, your child is going to die. It won’t be long”.
They prayed, my grandmother rushed to the hospital and prayed (she was the loudest ‘private’ prayer I ever heard!), my pastor prayed with his hands laid on my tiny frame.
Whatever may be your personal belief about these things, something happened in a moment that the nurse attending me in critical care deemed “a miracle” as she called my parents in.
I had regained consciousness, cried instantly for a feed, pooped, and gone back to normal restful sleep (the three major accomplishments of a 3 month old!) and was home 2 days later.
Nine years on the consultant surgeon who attended me wrote to my parents enquiring if I was still alive as, in his words, he was intrigued by “this highly unusual case”.
Whatever it was of divine presence that seemed to be activated in that place in that moment all those years ago, I am still here! That’s 65 years of amazing experiences for which I am grateful.
As I look forward to the next 65, I am praying I can make every single one a joyful testimony to the grace on my life.
Happy birthday to me and that same grace to you this fine day.