A Miracle Named Catherine

I have an almost eight-year-old granddaughter, named Catherine. Without indulging in even an ounce of coffee, she dances, twirls, and sings when we're together. Dance parties remain the activity of choice and due to recent summer fun, Don and I have participated in more than one.

During a recent family gathering, she surprised me by blurting, "Gigi told me you wrote an article about me a long time ago."

And Gigi, her other grandmother, is right.

Several years ago, I wrote a monthly testimony column for a small paper. By the time Catherine turned two, it was obvious her story needed to be told. For only a few months after she was conceived, Catherine's parents learned their unborn child had a diaphragmatic hernia.

In case you don't know, our diaphragms are a sheet of muscle that separate our intestinal tract from our respiratory system. When a baby forms with a hole in that muscle, their intestines and stomach often fill the upper chest, leaving little space for the lungs to grow in the last month in utero.

So no one knew what would happen to Catherine when she entered this world and was forced to breathe on her own, which made for many long months.

She came in mid-August and took her first breath, and then another, and another. Whisked away to the PICU, she was soon covered in tubes and apparatus that kept those breaths coming.

In time, doctors explained she was born with a lung that functioned at 75% and another at 25%. Her internal organs were mixed up like a jig saw puzzle, which would require surgeries in due time. But as the days went by and the breaths kept coming, she defied the odds and survived.


Catherine lived in the PICU for four months. When doctors discharged her, she went home with a trachea and a feeding tube. She didn't learn to eat until just before her third birthday, and endured a second hernia repair not long after.

After eleven surgeries (or more), scars cover her frame. Her internal organs have been set back in place (almost), and she looks like a thriving eight-year-old.

A miracle in motion.

It wasn't easy. The miracle that is Catherine involved dedicated parents, a great team of doctors, a lot of fancy medicine, and advanced medical equipment that saved her life more than once.

I know Catherine wouldn't be alive without the benefit of modern medicine. Still, when I touch her, it feels like I'm touching a miracle.

I tell her that every chance I get these days because just over six months ago, her life turned upside when her parents divorced. As her young heart processes the unwanted change and the stark reality that life is not fair, I like holding her close and reminding her of the miracle she is.

When I saw her earlier this week, my cough disrupted conversation and my right leg had grown weak from activity that culminated in our dance party. A third antibiotic roamed my system and doctors had cancelled my upcoming surgery.

Not in the best shape, I paused a little longer when I had the chance to remind Catherine that she's a miracle. The world slowed. My symptoms faded in importance. And I peered deep into shining eyes that reflect a warrior's heart.  

There, I saw a resilient life that is overcoming the odds yet again. And I felt stronger. Able. Ready to keep fighting my own fight of faith.

Her miracle gives me the courage to keep praying and waiting for my own. Which is what miracles are meant to do.

Mine may involve more scars and medicine, one breath at a time. But my God is the miracle maker. He works them out in His way and in His time. Some happen immediately while others unfold gently, like the seasons.

So while I wait, I'll hug Catherine a little tighter and longer and remind us both that God holds us even closer.

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