Opening Prayers

...that began a most unimaginable journey.

May 17, 2025

God.
(a long pause)
I don’t know what to pray for right now.
(another pause—this one heavier)
But I do know you’re in control of the outcome—
and none of the possible outcomes feel like something I want to pray for.
If he’s going to die on this journey, then God, spare him the suffering. Take him quickly.

If he’s going to lose his leg, then guide the surgeon to take it now—don’t drag it out.

If all he needs is a wound clean-out, then let it be enough. Let it be complete. Let it be now.
Truly, the only thing I’m asking in this moment is for you to be near.

Let your presence be constant. Let the reminders of your mercy echo through every hallway we walk.

Go before us. Work out the details. Please.

This was the prayer I whispered—alone—at 1:45 a.m. on February 11, 2025. Ironically, my late father’s birthday whose life was one prominent with Type 1 Diabetes. This synchronicity was not lost on me.

The ER had become a battlefield.

With an immediate admission with a blood sugar of 425 and a first time diagnosis of type 2 diabetes, system after system in Kevin’s body began to fail. The ER doctor on duty was visibly frustrated—no surgeon or specialist on call would come evaluate the wound. Eventually, a disease specialist was pulled in from another ER case, who told him to try a specific trauma surgeon. Two had already refused. But he suggested a third—someone not even on call. The ER doctor took photos of Kevin’s foot and sent it to that surgeon’s personal phone.

That surgeon didn’t wait. He called the OR directly from home and told them to prep the OR. As we were being told Kevin was finally going to be admitted to a regular room, two OR nurses in scrubs appeared. “We’re here to take him.”

It happened so slow & then so fast.

Everyone I knew was asleep. No time to call anyone. No one to sit with me.

We got to the OR, and only then did the surgeon explain the stakes.
His job wasn’t to save the foot—it was to save Kevin’s life.

Kevin wasn’t processing any of it. He looked at me.
The surgeon asked for consent. I said yes. He gives consent.

I was ushered to a waiting room. No instructions. No updates.

Google and God my only companions.

I remembered my daughter’s surgery the year before—how she had a number on the board. But now, there was only one surgery listed. So, I didn’t need the id number they had forgotten to give me.

I didn’t ask how long it would take, so I Googled:
Thirty minutes for a wound clean-out.
Past 45? It meant amputation.

When the surgeon walked around the corner, I already knew.
His posture said everything.

He had done everything he could. But he couldn’t save the leg.
And I thanked him—because he saved Kevin’s life.
God answered that prayer.

Not with a maybe. Not with a delayed heartbreak. But with clarity.

No dragging out what was inevitable. No false hope.
Just mercy. In the middle of the unthinkable.

The surgeon left, and I stood there… lost. Numb.

What now?

There were no instructions. I had missed a call … the voicemail from the OR saying Kevin had been moved to his room. So I headed upstairs. He was already there. Tucked in a tiny room. Awake. Confused.

I had no idea what the coming weeks would hold.
But I knew I needed to rest while I could. So I went home, laid down, and hoped I’d find the right words to tell the kids.

What I do know—what I knew that night and what I’ve witnessed every single day since—is this:

God has been with us.
In the chaos. In the quiet.
In the unexpected. In the unfolding.

Our Waymaker.
Still writing the story.
Still showing up in the thick of it.

Kevin has been unable to return to work and they won’t allow him to return to work until he gets his prosthetic or they force him into medical retirement whichever comes first - so we are in a race to that finish line. When you support this publication, you help support our journey and the ongoing expenses. I am full time caregiver and transportation for all of my family members at the moment. Please consider subscribing / upgrading your subscription to the paid tier for just $9 a month.

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