Providence Never Fails (But it is Rarely What We Expect)
God promises to provide, but He doesn't promise to do it according to our plans.
The moment I realized my husband wasn’t sleeping on our family room floor (as detailed here), two remarkable things happened: An almost tangible peace settled over me, and seven beautiful words began to plan through my mind.
God will provide. God will be glorified.
By the grace of God, I believed those words to my inmost core. God would provide. I didn’t know how. Honestly, as the stay-at-home mother of five children, “providing” evoked thoughts of food, shelter, and the meeting of basic needs. As for God being glorified? That, I thought, would be the miracle. Ray, whose heart had stopped beating, would come back to us complete and whole. He would continue to fulfill his roles within our family: husband, father, friend, confidant, problem-solver, story-teller, fried-chicken-maker, and so much more.
God had other plans, however, and I continue to watch them play out nearly ten years later.
The following is the second installment in our story of God’s providence and God’s glory, the events immediately following the arrival of first responders at our Indianapolis home. (If you haven’t read part I, get caught up by clicking here.)
“We’ve defibrillated your husband three times,” the EMT explained once we were outside the kids’ hearing. “We’re able to get a heartbeat, but it doesn’t last. We can’t load him onto the ambulance until he’s got a steady rhythm.”
I asked a few questions with no real answers before returning to the master bedroom, where I’d taken the kids so they wouldn’t see the events unfolding in our main living space. Only moments passed before we learned that they’d loaded Ray onto the ambulance.
I got the kids into the car, and we made our way to the hospital in silence. It was eerie to drive the quiet streets, knowing that only minutes before Ray had passed through them in an ambulance, sirens blaring. Did anyone see them pass? I wondered. Did anyone pray?
God will provide. God will be glorified. As surely as the sun would soon rise and then set again, as the fall days would grow colder, as winter’s desolate cold would turn to spring’s warmth and full bloom, I knew the words were true. The peace continued.
We arrived at the emergency room and were shown to a private waiting room. A nurse brought the kids treats from a vending machine: Sprite and Pop Tarts. Funny how the kids’ dad could be dying and they’d still get excited about Sprite and Pop Tarts.
A doctor came in and introduced himself as the cardiologist on duty. “Your husband had a 100% blockage of what we call the widow-maker artery. When it becomes blocked it can take people very suddenly,” the doctor explained. “Fortunately, we were able to clear the artery, and Ray’s heart is operating at almost normal capacity.
“We’ve been trying to wake him, though, and he’s not responding to stimuli. Do you have any idea how long he was out before you found him?”
I described the scene as best I could: Thinking Ray was just sleeping on the floor, nursing the baby, hearing those awful breaths, watching his chest, listening for his breath, realizing there was none.
“How much time do you think transpired between those last breaths and beginning chest compressions?”
“I don’t know. Five minutes? Maybe less, maybe more? But I wasn’t doing the chest compressions right at first,” I confessed. “The 911 operator told me the right way.” Why, oh why, hadn’t I paid more attention to that topic on Good Morning America?
The doctor left and my parents arrived. After some discussion, they took the kids home to try to get some sleep. I remained in the waiting room. Praying. Hoping. Trusting.
God will provide. God will be glorified.
Within hours, we knew we were looking at a significant brain injury. They transferred Ray to the neurological ICU, where his tiny room was constantly abuzz with nurses, techs, and doctors — up to five or six people in the room at any given time. Ray’s parents came from Alabama. I went back and forth between home and hospital, attempting a delicate juggling act of nurturing my worried children while keeping vigil at my husband’s bedside.
Four days later, after going to Sunday Mass, I found myself alone with Ray in his ICU room for the first time since this had all begun. Pulling the chair as close to his side as I could, I fished a rosary from my purse and began to pray. Given the number of people who were generally in the room with us, this was the first time I’d prayed the Rosary at his bedside since it had all begun.
He hadn’t moved a muscle since 3:00am Thursday morning. Now, Ray moved his pinky — the finger closest to me.
I ran to tell the nurses, who said it was an involuntary spasm.
The next day, Ray’s parents and I waited hours for the doctor to come in with the results of his MRI. She finally arrived just as I was getting ready to go meet our older three kids at the school, where they were being pulled from class to pray with our parish community.
She introduced herself. I shook her hand. I looked at the clock. I made a decision. Meaning no disrespect, but well aware that the MRI would tell us the extent of the damage but could give us no plan for treatment, I looked her square in the eye.
“You can’t change anything,” I declared. “I’m going to go talk to Someone who can. I’m going to go pray the Rosary.”
At the word “Rosary,” Ray’s right arm shot up toward the ceiling.
That was his second movement.
His third movement came the next night. We’d learned from that MRI that things didn’t look good — Ray may never walk or talk again. He may need constant care, might need to spend the rest of his days in a treatment facility. Still, the doctors were talking “extraordinary measures” — giving him a feeding tube and tracheotomy to keep him alive, measures that he might be dependent upon for the rest of his life.
When one of the nurses suggested I might not want to authorize these, the peace with which I’d been enveloped suddenly fled. Would Ray have wanted to be kept alive? I knew the answer, from his own words: No. Not if it meant living as a vegetable or dependent upon others for basic activities.
If I said “yes” to those extraordinary measures, what sort of life was I condemning him to? A life he never wanted?
Knowing that the teaching of the Church does not require such measures, but that, once taken, they could not be removed, I wrestled with the decision for hours. My dear friend Jennifer, herself a critical care nurse, came to visit. Suggesting that I needed a break from the hospital, she drove us out to dinner. As we neared our destination, I also neared a breaking point. “How can I make this decision?” I moaned. “How can I know?”
Finally, realization struck. “God has been so incredibly present to me throughout all of this,” I spoke with awe. “He’s not going to leave me to make this decision alone. He will make it abundantly clear what I’m meant to do.”
The peace returned. God will provide. God will be glorified.
Jennifer and I spent our dinner together reminiscing about evenings spent sampling Ray’s concoctions while he ran the bar at the restaurant Jennifer’s husband had managed. We laughed. We cried. But the few tears we shed were only a sprinkling of sadness alongside a strong shot of hope.
When we returned to Ray’s side, I spoke as Jennifer took his hand in hers. “Ray, Jennifer is here. She came to see you.”
At the sound of my voice, Ray squeezed Jennifer’s hand. His third movement.
I often look for three confirmations when I’m discerning something. And God often does me one better.
The next afternoon, my sister Suzanne and I prayed the Divine Mercy Chaplet at Ray’s bedside at 3:00—the Hour of Mercy. As we prayed, Ray’s eyes flickered open. His fourth movement.
He searched the room and settled on my face.
“Ray! I’m here! You’re going to be okay!” I cried in excitement. “Everything is going to be okay!”
Ray stared into my eyes for a moment before once again closing his.
“He recognized you,” Suzanne declared. “He’s in there. He’s definitely in there.”
The next day, doctors performed the surgery to give Ray a feeding tube and tracheotomy.
My first thought for God’s provision was focused on the earthly, but God had other plans. While He has provided in remarkable material ways in the decade since Ray’s heart attack and brain injury, the graces He’s provided have, ultimately, been of far greater value.
Has God provided clear guidance in a difficult decision you’ve had to make?
How do you need Him to provide for you today?
Please share in the comments, as you’re comfortable.
With His grace, let’s go move some mountains!
You have given me a lot to think about when things are going hard and I wonder how much I can always Trust in the Lord.
Jesus I Trust in You
I really love your prayer
God will provide.
God will be glorified!
Wow. What a story. I can't seem to find the words to respond to this, except that it's indeed clear that God has been there with you through it all. May He continue to carry you, your husband and children through it all.