His older brother, Justin, was just getting over chicken pox on Casey's second birthday. Poor Justin missed the party while he was quarantined from the other kids. Casey loved his brother and took each gift he opened upstairs to let Justin play with it. After cutting the cake, Casey took the first piece up to his brother. In fact, he spent most of his birthday going up and down the stairs to Justin's room.

Casey had the cutest lisp when he talked, and he stuttered when he was excited. His blond hair lay in wisps across his forehead, and his smile could warm the coldest heart. He was so innocent. No one could have predicted what was about to happen to this precious child.

One week following his birthday, Casey was plastered with nasty red spots, and then he spiked a fever. He was flat in bed, unable to keep any food or fluids down, becoming more and more dehydrated every minute. It was a Sunday night and I couldn't break his 105-degree fever. I rushed him to the emergency room.

The doctor told me Casey was just going through a normal reaction to chicken pox and sent us home, against my better judgment. The next day, Casey was almost lifeless, and he was admitted to the hospital with severe dehydration and an internal infection from his chicken pox.

I sat by my mother, tears flowing down my face, as she lifted my son and all his tubes into my arms. I felt weak and numb all over. Casey briefly opened his eyes, looked into mine and drifted off again. The doctor told us that Casey's chicken pox had caused a poison in his bloodstream and they were unsure what to do, except continue intravenous (IV) fluids and antibiotics, and try to keep his fever under control. The nurses rolled a bed into his room to enable me to stay with him. I was awake all night holding my precious boy.

In the morning the doctor came in to check Casey again. Four nurses followed and hooked up more wires to my son. Casey was unresponsive, though everyone tried waking him. I kept looking at the heart monitor which would speed up and slow down, then speed up again.

The doctor started making more frequent visits and the nurses were in constantly. Later that evening, the doctor told me Casey was slipping into a coma. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. For the next four days, I never left Casey's side. I didn't even go home to shower and change my clothes. There was just no improvement. Family members drifted in and out. My mother was there most frequently.

Every moment of every day I prayed for my son's life and health. The doctors were baffled. No one had ever heard of chicken pox making anyone this desperately ill. I noticed on Friday that the heart monitor kept elevating and not decreasing at all. The doctor was called in immediately.

I leaned against the wall in the hallway, emotionally exhausted, as the doctor put his hand on my shoulder. "Lisa," he stated, "Casey's on the verge of heart failure and there's nothing more we can do." I felt my whole body go numb. His voice grew farther away and echoed. "Is there any family you would like to call that's not already here?"

The only person I called was my pastor. Then for the next forty-five minutes, I sat in a daze, rocking my son and staring into his blank, pale, yet peaceful face.

Pastor George walked into the room. His face was sober, but reassuring. My mother took Casey from me so I could get up and greet George. He reached out and put his arms around me as I quietly trembled and sobbed. George then went to Casey, kneeled down and kissed his forehead. All of our family gathered in a circle with Casey still in my mother's arms. We joined hands and George prayed for Casey's recovery. We continued to pray fervently, and then sat as George comforted us.

Twenty minutes later, Casey sneezed. His heart monitor went nuts, and then he opened his eyes for the first time in four days. He smiled and reached up to touch his grandmother's tear-streamed face. My mother nearly screamed with joy. "Hello, my sweet boy!"

Casey looked at me. "Mama." He reached his arms out for me.

"Hi, my baby boy!" I whispered between sobs of joy and relief. "You were sleeping for a long time."

Casey sat up and said, "I'm hungry." His voice was raspy from not speaking for so long. He looked around his room and spotted my half-eaten hoagie. "I want that," he pointed.

The doctor stood in the doorway and exclaimed, "Give him whatever he wants. Hey, big guy!" The doctor just shook his head and smiled. "I don't believe this," he said. He stepped over to Casey and listened to his heart. "Perfect! I have never seen anything like this in my entire medical career. His heart rate is perfect."

It seemed the entire hospital staff was talking about the miracle which happened before their eyes. Nurses kept coming into Casey's room to say hello and kiss him on the cheek.

Two days later, I brought Casey home. Justin was thrilled to see his brother and nearly knocked him down as he came through the door.

Casey has his tenth birthday coming up. He gets straight A's in school, and he and Justin are still extremely close. So if anyone ever doubts that God performs miracles, you tell them to see me.


/>Kate Dori

The harsh clamor of my alarm roused me from placid slumber. Exhausted from working late the night before, a million tasks awaited me at home. All of this, combined with the fact that it was Labor Day, made it especially difficult to drag myself out of bed, but thankfully I did.

This was Monday, my regular volunteer day at the Bailey-Boushay House, an adult day-health and residential care facility for people living with AIDS and other life-threatening illnesses. When I first arrived, it was unusually quiet. After checking in with two different floors, I thought about heading home.

Just then one of the nurses came up to me and spoke of a patient who was having an especially hard time. "I can't stay with Igor right now, but could you go and sit by his side and calm him as best you can?"

"Sure. It doesn't look like much is going on this morning anyway." As I turned to walk down the hall, the nurse added, "By the way, I think you should know that Igor is a Russian concert pianist, and he is dying." I nodded silently and proceeded on my way.

As a volunteer, my first priority was to provide companionship, as well as to run errands for the residents and take them to their doctors' appointments. Each Monday brought a unique set of experiences.

When I walked into his room, I noticed that Igor was semicomatose. As I sat beside him, holding his hand and talking to him, I didn't feel as if I were making a connection. When I decided to move my chair to the other side of his bed, I found a letter sitting on the night table, so I decided to read it to him.

The letter was spiritual and heartfelt. It mentioned how much joy Igor and his music had brought to this world. His friend also reminded Igor how much he adored Beethoven, Bach and Schubert, and how Igor would soon be playing the piano for the angels in heaven.

All of a sudden Igor's eyes began to open, so I read the letter again. Then, without even thinking twice, I stood up, placed a CD in the stereo and pushed play. Beautiful piano music played as I placed my hand on his chest. It seemed like a soothing, peaceful and centering gesture.

Igor's chest muscles were tight and his breathing labored. "Igor, it's okay to go. It's time," I whispered. Softly I said, "Relax, take deep breaths and feel the music." Much to my surprise, he did. Igor's muscles calmed, and his breathing slowed. Then, like a proud coach, I said, "Wonderful. Do it again...Perfect!" Igor had a shining sparkle in his eyes.

I guess you have to be somewhat of a perfectionist to be a concert pianist, I deduced. Igor liked being perfect. It almost seemed as though he were performing his final concert. I continued speaking positive words of encouragement. At one point, I thought he might like me to place my hand on his forehead, but as I moved my hand, he reached up and brought it back to his chest.

At last, Igor took his last breath. I waited and asked, "Are you there yet?" When he started to come back, I said, "No...no," as I patted his chest. "You made it. I am proud of you." Then Igor let go.

I stayed with him about ten minutes and collected myself. I couldn't believe I had it in me to do something like that. Our souls had connected. I felt overwhelmed by the power of the human spirit.

As a nurse in a childbirth center, I'm accustomed to guiding women through labor almost every day. I surprised myself by saying the exact same things to Igor that I usually say to women in labor.

As I sat by Igor's side, I contemplated how these intense and magical experiences of birth and death are similar. From the moment of birth to the moment of death, we all need encouragement, love and the human touch.


Marlinda Carlile

When the first tree arrived at the carpenters, he was made into a feed box for animals. He was then placed in a barn and filled with hay. This was not at all what he had prayed for.

The second tree was cut and made into a small fishing boat. His dreams of being a mighty ship and carrying kings had come to an end.

The third tree was cut into large pieces and left alone in the dark.

The years went by, and the trees forgot about their dreams.

Then one day, a man and woman came to the barn. She gave birth and they placed the baby in the hay in the feed box that was made from the first tree. The man wished that he could have made a crib or the baby, but this manger would have to do. The tree could feel the importance of this event and knew that it had held the greatest treasure of all time.

Years later, a group of men got in the fishing boat made from the second tree. One of them was tired and went to sleep. While they were out on the water, a great storm arose and the tree didn't think it was strong enough to keep the men safe. The men woke the sleeping man, and He stood and said "Peace" and the storm stopped. At this time, the tree knew that it had carried the King of Kings in its boat.

Finally, someone came and got the third tree. It was carried through the streets as the people mocked the man who was carrying it. When they came to a stop; the man was nailed to the tree and raised in the air to die at the top of a hill. When Sunday came, the tree came to realize that it was strong enough to stand at the top of the hill and be as close to God as was possible, because Jesus had been crucified on it.

The moral of this story is that when things don't seem to be going your way, always know that God has a plan for you. If you place your trust in Him, He will give you great gifts. Each of the trees got what they wanted, just not in the way they had imagined. We don't always know what God's plans are for us. We just know that His ways are not our ways, but His ways
are always best.

Please keep this moving... pass it on, so He may inspire more people on the way. May your day be blessed. And until we meet again, may God cradle you in the palm of His hand.