Sacred Seeds of Redemption: 40 True Stories to Encourage Your Heart

WHERE HAD SAM BEEN?

The events surrounding Sam’s birth were heartbreaking and stressful. Andrea kept her unplanned pregnancy a secret for months, fearing our reaction. Would we disown her? Kick her out? Force her to marry someone who not only didn’t love her but did not want any part of the baby he had fathered? Naturally cautious and fearful, she imagined the worst. Andrea was in her first year of college and not home most of the time. Still, how could I have missed all the signs?

I remember the day I finally figured it out. Andrea rode along with me when I took her sister, Sarah, to her music lesson and we waited together in the car. I can only imagine what inner anguish she must have been experiencing, how desperate for understanding, acceptance, and resolution. She probably had been dropping subtle hints all along, but I was blind and deaf to them. What triggered the fragments to coalesce into a whole? I don’t remember. But when dense me finally put all the pieces together, I first felt overcome with great despair, then fear—we’d have to tell her dad, a challenging task in the best of circumstances.

Sarah and I stood by her side, but I made her tell him her story. Andrea, Sarah, and I all wept; it was a heartbreaking moment. An innately shy and insecure young woman—she was only eighteen—Andrea had a natural propensity for avoiding hard things, and it couldn’t get much harder than this. Cecil wasn’t happy, but I felt relieved that he knew and thankful that he treated the situation as just one more challenge to conquer.

Someone has said that a crisis doesn’t make a man’s character, it just reveals it. I work hard to live at peace with those I’m in relationship with, but—and that’s a mighty word, but—I have often behaved as if I’m above reproach and know what’s best for everyone concerned. The only redemption for that self-righteous attitude is humility, and life was about to prescribe a hefty dose for me.

I didn’t want my beautiful daughter’s life ruined by this pregnancy. I thought I was a pro-lifer—I professed to be. It’s easy to take an uncompromising stance when it’s not your own inner circle in crisis. I’m ashamed to admit that my mind was weighing two options: abortion or adoption. Among my video collection was a Christian-based tape opposing abortion, which Andrea watched several times. Against her wishes, I forced her to visit the crisis pregnancy center. She came home visibly distressed. What she knew in her heart—that she wanted to have this baby and keep it—did not appear to be an alternative anyone was willing to endorse. She felt as if she were facing the mountain alone.

We owned a home in Florida at the time, and at her request we sent her down there to escape the shame and embarrassment she felt being an unwed mother, and to buy some time for all of us to adjust emotionally. With my mind’s eyes I can vividly see my frightened little girl, glancing back at me with big sad eyes as she left the gate, all alone, to board the airplane heading south. We had a restaurant there managed by dear friends, adopted family—Sid and Sutilak. Sutilak picked Andrea up at the airport and stayed with her some of the time until we could make other accommodations. I spent hours on the telephone with Andrea, listening, encouraging, trying to infuse her with strength and courage. It was a scary and very lonely time for Andrea.

As soon as school was out for the summer, Cecil drove Andrea’s car down for her to use. At the same time, Sarah, my mother, and I flew down to stay a few days. When the rest of us returned home, my mother—always an angel of mercy—stayed with Andrea, awaiting the arrival of the baby, who was due in August.

My mother, a young, vital seventy-five-year-old, was capable of handling many tasks, but she did not drive anymore. She felt anxious, encouraging the baby to wait for my arrival before deciding to make his appearance, and praying fervently to that end. The baby listened. I flew down alone on August 8, 1990. Okay, I said to two very relieved ladies, let’s get this show on the road. I whimsically sent Andrea to the piano to play Pomp and Circumstance, the traditional graduation march. I gave the baby his own marching orders. I doubt my maneuvers had any significant effect—more likely it was merely emotional relief—but whatever the reason or cause, Andrea went into labor that night. The next day, August 9th, we welcomed Samuel Joseph Buchanan to our family.

My mother and I were both at the hospital with Andrea, and I was by her side when she delivered, encouraging her with scriptures like I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. She later told me she’d wanted to kill me for my cheerful motivation while she was suffering the pain of childbirth. Who knew? Apparently there are moments in life when even holy encouragement can grate on your nerves!

As I leaned over the specially prepared bed and murmured my first words to this little person, I fell madly, irrevocably in love. He gazed back at me, a wise look it seemed, with understanding—a mystical encounter, an ineffable spiritual moment. Whatever doubts I had were instantly dispelled. This child was meant to be—and he was meant to be a part of our lives. He appeared to be a normal healthy baby, and we thanked God for his safe arrival even as we heard wailing coming from a room down the hall as some family suffered a tremendous loss.

But all was not well. An astute nurse noticed that Sammy had unusual tremors, more than the normal easy startling most newborns display. The doctors ordered a CT scan. I stood beside Andrea when the neurologist came in to see her, his face and demeanor grave as he told us they had discovered a pool of blood in the baby’s brain. Andrea pulled her baby closer as tears began trickling down her cheeks. She looked at me, a look of desperate pleading. I was supposed to have the power to make everything okay—that’s what mothers do. I gazed back helplessly. The doctor warned us that the baby would likely not be normal and they would be moving him to the neonatal center for further testing and closer observation. We were scared, our hearts breaking, vividly aware of our human limitations. What we were not, however, was helpless.

When Andrea was released, we had to leave baby Sammy at the hospital, hooked up to various tubes and wires in the neonatal center. We immediately got on the phone to family and church friends. A serious network of prayer went into action. Our pastor and dear friend in Florida, Sharon Walker, was anointed on Sam’s behalf. We fervently petitioned our heavenly Father. We wept over and prayed for and loved this little life with all our being.

Cecil and Sarah had joined us by now. We went back to the hospital every day over the next several days. One day the doctor’s countenance was not so somber. We don’t know what happened, he told us with obvious puzzlement. The additional, more comprehensive tests showed nothing. The pool of blood had disappeared! The doctor had taken all the test results to Miami Children’s Hospital where a team of doctors had reviewed the results. They were baffled. And those unusual tremors? Gone too.

You can think what you want. We know the finger of God had touched this beautiful baby boy and brought healing to his damaged body.

That’s not the end of the story, though.

How we all doted on this interesting little person. As Andrea continued her education, she moved to South Carolina for a year with her grandma, once again, as companion and babysitter. It was a life-enhancing move for all of them. My mother made some good friends, godly women who took this little family under their wings. When my mother got sick with pneumonia and we had to bring her home, those very women filled the void by periodically babysitting for Sam. Although Andrea had to enroll Sam in a daycare, she still occasionally utilized her support system, providing Sam with a good start in life, nurtured by a network of women of faith who loved and prayed for him.

Andrea and Sam came home to stay the next year. They lived with us for a while, she went to work for her dad, and I babysat for Sam. Even at this early age (he was only two years old) Sam was wonderfully imaginative and creative, entertaining himself for hours. Sometimes, though, he would startle us with snippets of information that we could not trace to its origination point.

For instance, one day he and I were having a discussion about things he was afraid of—like monsters. I reassured him that God is watching over us and that His guardian angels are all around. Sam looked at me with complete comprehension and floored me by stating matter-of-factly, I know, Nani. I have Gabriel. He didn’t say it, but I got the impression he was thinking Duh. He was a miniature know-it-all—even then! We believe in angels, but we rarely speak of them, nor do we ever call them by name. We have no idea how that name, attached to one of only two angels named in our Scripture, found its way into Sammy’s fledgling vocabulary. How did Sammy even know that Gabriel was an angel?

On another occasion, Andrea was driving through town one day with Sam and me as passengers. I sat in front beside her. Sam, who was buckled in his car seat in the back, suddenly began to sing. Ah-my-loo-lah! Ah-my-loo-lah, he sang heartily—on key—to the tune of Handel’s Hallelujah chorus! Now where did that come from? Andrea and I looked at each other in amazement. To our knowledge, Sam had never heard the song. It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?

I like to think that during those few days while Sam was being healed, he spent some quality time with Gabriel. Perhaps Gabriel was with him still. Sam seemed pretty confident about his angel. Maybe, just maybe, they sang a few songs together. Or maybe, they attended a heavenly concert filled with celestial music—music sung by an ethereal choir singing Hal-le-lu-jah! Hal-le-lu-jah!

Wherever Sam had been, I’m certain of one thing. God was there, too.

For he will command his angels concerning you, to guard you in all your ways; they will lift you up in their hands, so that you will not strike your foot against a stone. Psalm 91:11-12

FULFILLING PROPHECY

I’ve never been considered a beauty. Nor is my body put together with perfect symmetry. I’m not as tall as I look because I’m longer from the waist down than I am from the waist up. My sister, Clara, who is thirteen months younger than me, got her first bra when I got mine. She actually needed hers. She’s a frog hair taller, too, but I’m the one with flippers for feet: long narrow feet, long skinny toes. Her feet are a respectable size seven and a half or eight. You don’t need to know what size shoe I wear. I consider our family doctor a friend, but Dr. Foster indelibly painted the graphic picture in my mind of me tripping over my frog feet. In response to a disparaging comment I once made about my feet, he looked down, studied them briefly and intently, and then with a slight smile said, With those flippers you would have been a good addition to the swim team!

Although I was innately graced with a high functioning metabolism, as I matured, the pounds began to sneak on—especially, to my dismay, around my midsection and thighs. I eventually leveled off—about twenty-five or thirty pounds over optimal weight for my age and height. And there I pitched my tent.

Even with the remote possibility that I couldn’t see my own flaws and physical deficiencies, I have a hubby and offspring who cheerfully keep me apprised of them, forcing me to be humble.

When my youngest daughter Sarah was growing up she loved to pick at things: blackheads or zits, mascara off eyelashes, and her very favorite—pulling gray hairs out of my head. Why did she enjoy that particular activity so much? The satisfaction, of course, that a teenager derives from inflicting pain on her poor old mother. She laughed every time I winced. I confess. Sometimes when she had to tug especially hard on a stubborn hair, I’d wince heartily, it gave her so much pleasure!

One day I was sitting at the kitchen table when Sarah came up behind me and began the quest for gray hair. You’re getting a lot of gray hair, she said with obvious delight. Unfortunately, most of those gray hairs were located over my ears, a very tender spot, and I forbid her access to them.

"You can pull any gray hairs you want except over my ears," I ordered. That might have foiled her fun somewhat, but she complied.

Should have known she’d best me. Remember that saying Sticks and stones and pulling out gray hairs may break your bones but words—oh, those deadly words, what can they do? Sarah knew exactly.

She began a thorough critique of my overall person as she intently perused my head for rogue strands of silver. "You know, Mom, you should do something with your hair, she observed thoughtfully. You need some style. She paused a moment, then pulled out the big guns. You need to get in shape, too. And you should lose a little weight . . . like Jan Martinelli," she added kindly, referring to a lady in our church who had recently undergone a major physical transformation from heavy and dowdy to a slender hottie. I really did wince at that jab.

That did it. This little moment in time had turned ugly, and my blood pressure started rising ominously. My hubby always says that the best defense is a good offense, and I proceeded to launch mine, invoking the highest authority I knew of. Do you know what the Bible says, Sarah? I asked, about to put her firmly in her place. It says that in the last days children will be disobedient to their parents. But mark this: There will be terrible times in the last days. People will be lovers of themselves, lovers of money, boastful, proud, abusive, disobedient to their parents, ungrateful, unholy, without love, unforgiving, slanderous, without self-control, brutal, not lovers of the good, treacherous, rash, conceited, lovers of pleasure rather than lovers of God. 2 Timothy 3: 1-4

Intimidate Sarah? Not likely. Sarah is at her finest with an appreciative audience, especially her sister. Andrea is shy and cautious by nature and is often Sarah’s complicit silent partner in Mom abuse. She stood nearby laughing, waiting for the leveler she knew was sure to come. Sarah, notorious for a razor-sharp tongue and quick wit, didn’t disappoint her. Without missing a beat, she retorted, Well then. I’m just fulfilling prophecy.

Perhaps, though, I might just have the last laugh. As my hubby, a repository of convenient clichés, is fond of saying, What goes around comes around. It’s fitting, don’t you think, that Sarah has a daughter, too?

Do not be deceived; God cannot be mocked. A man reaps what he sows . . . let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up. Galatians 6:7, 9

SAYING THANKS

No, thank you, I responded to my husband’s offer for more mashed potatoes. He gave me another spoonful anyway.

It’ll put hair on your chest, he said, one of his classic responses to that ongoing struggle to establish who’s in charge. I’d rather not be blessed with any more hair on my chest, though.